"I think I want to be a judge," she comments, twirling blonde hair around a finger, and you can't help but wonder what she'd look like without it. Hairless, as all judges are. Your brows knit together, because you have to piece these fragments of your friend together - the girl who beams with pride when you run your fingers through her hair and tell her how much it suits her, and the girl who wants to be a judge.
"Judges are ugly," you answer, nose wrinkling, because they are. Grey and bland, their features reduced to nothing in an effort to make them look impartial, hair seared away to leave a shining, silver dome of a head.
"But they're important!" She protests with that same fire which first drew you to her, the one which makes you look at her blonde hair as though it is actually embers, flitting around the flame that is her. She wore that same expression three years ago, when you wound up in the same class and the teacher - brunette, like all teachers, with that same sculpted "warmth" to their face as every other teacher has - told her that Equalising first happened fifty years ago.
(No, it was seventy five! I know, my grandpa was one of the first.)
"Well, so are EMTs, and they're not ugly." Your rebuttal makes her blue eyes roll, makes her shake her head, the way she always does when she thinks you're simply too foolish to bother debating the point.
She does that more often now.
You try not to think what it means.