Yes

His suggestion surprises me. With the outfit today, I've already clearly stepped out of my comfort zone. I mean: in a way, that's what my work and travel year in Australia is for, but I like my hair. I even really like it and have never thought about dyeing it. And now I'm somehow considering it. Across from me is a full-length mirror, in which I now look at myself and try to imagine how I would look in the skimpy costume with almost silver/white hair. He's right. It would be perfect for the costume, but what about after tonight? It will take forever for the color to grow out of my long hair.

A moment of silence passes in which Brad looks at me expectantly. My mouth opens, even though a decision hasn't actually been made in my head yet. With a trembling and uncertain voice, I reply: "If you think the cosplay will be better then, okay. But you're paying for it. That's not coming out of my fee."

Brad laughs in relief: "Of course I'm paying for that. If you need to prepare in any way, for example if you need makeup or something, then I'll pay." He grabs his phone and starts making calls while I continue to nervously wander through the shop and look at the various items for sale.

My thoughts on the items are interrupted by Brad, who leads me to the back, into the cluttered storage room, which also serves as a break room. On one wall is a small sink and a stained mirror. Next to the sink stands a rickety metal chair, on which Brad asks me to sit. He leaves the room and I scroll through TikTok and Insta for a bit. Let's see what my friends are up to.

Suddenly, the thick fire door swings open with a heavy ****. A woman with long, black-dyed hair enters. She has a large bust that is immediately noticeable, wears high heels, and a short, tight, pink dress that emphasizes her figure. Her skin is tanned by the sun and almost leathery. Britney is the complete opposite of me. Her face is perfectly contoured, her eyelashes so long they could almost create wind when she blinks, and she's wearing more makeup than I've probably ever owned in my entire life.

I usually feel at home on the soccer field. When I take the ball on the left wing, sprint past the defense, and look to score, I'm in my element. There I am fast, agile, and confident. But here? Here I feel like a completely different person.

Britney comes towards me and hugs me exuberantly. As she enters the room, she's followed by a wave of sickly-smelling perfume. A bit too intense for my taste. She smiles and greets me. Then she scrutinizes me from head to toe and asks me to stand up for a moment. I straighten up. Her gaze sweeps over my body. It's a bit stifling to be examined like this. This isn't about my character and who I really am. This is purely about my appearance. Britney gives an appreciative whistle: "Wow, Brad, you've really landed a catch." Then she looks over at me and directs her words to me: "Sweetie, you've got real potential! Your face, sweetie, somehow innocent. You were definitely the secret crush of all the boys at school. And then your body. Stomach, butt, legs. I don't know what sport you do, but you have to show me."

I almost whisper back that I play soccer and take my seat again on the rickety chair. Britney talks alternately with me and Brad, discussing the color and desired style. In the discussion, however, I am left out. She starts taking small bottles out of her large, heavy-looking bag and mixing a paste.

The stuffy air in Brad's comic store's storage room smells of old paper, plastic figures, and now—very intensely—of chemicals. Sitting, I press my legs tightly together and try to make myself as small as possible, which fortunately isn't difficult at my 1.57 meters.

"Sweetie, relax a bit. You're all tense," Britney chirps and pushes my shoulders down. I throw a short, uncertain glance at the steamed-up mirror leaning against a shelf with Batman collectible figures. The costume is... insane. Brad wasn't exaggerating when he said it was real craftsmanship. The green sequins glitter with every one of my shallow breaths, and the fabric clings to my body like a second skin. The top is cleverly constructed; it holds everything in place, even though it feels as if it's made of just a few strategically placed leaves. Through the oval neckline in the middle, my stomach sticks out extremely. The hard training at the club has left its mark—my six-pack is almost intimidatingly visible under the bright neon light of the storage room.

"The contrast will be incredible," murmurs Brad, who is standing with his arms crossed in the doorway, watching. "This delicate, fairy-like exterior and then this athletic presence. But the hair, Jette... the hair is the key."

I just nod shyly. Normally, I would never agree to radically change my dark blonde hair. I like my uncomplicated look. But there's something about Brad's manner—he's so convinced of his vision, and the job pays so well that my protest simply got stuck in my throat. For some reason, it feels strangely good that he knows exactly what he wants, and I just have to say yes.

Britney continues to stir the dye. The pungent smell of ammonia rises to my nose. "We're going for it. Peroxide blonde. Almost white, with a cool silver sheen. You'll look like you just hatched straight out of Neverland," she clarifies.

I feel her separate the first strand and brush the cold paste onto my scalp. A shiver runs down my back, and I hunch my shoulders. The hem of the dress slips up a little further, barely a hand's breadth below my butt. I feel incredibly exposed, so almost undressed in this cluttered storage room while my identity is disappearing under a layer of bleach.

"Stay completely still," Brad says softly. His voice is calm but firm.

I lower my gaze to my hands resting in my lap. Normally, I'm the one who sets the pace, who dashes across the grass and forces the decision. But here, in this moment, I almost paradoxically enjoy others deciding about my appearance. It's as if I've left the responsibility at the door for a moment.

As Britney wraps strand after strand of my hair in aluminum foil, I stare at my bare knees and wonder if my teammates back home would even recognize me. I am Jette, the left winger from the north—and at the same time, I am becoming something I don't quite understand yet.

"Finished with the application," Britney announces proudly and pats me lightly on the cheek. "Now we have to wait. Brad, do you have a coffee for our little elf?"

Brad nods and doesn't take his eyes off me. I sit there, wrapped in plastic and foil, my stomach glistening under the artificial light. I drink my hot coffee and have nothing left to do but wait.

Britney begins to unwrap the aluminum foils one by one. The rustling sounds unnaturally loud in the silence of the storage room. When she leads me to the sink and lets the cool water run over my scalp, I close my eyes. I feel the heavy chemicals being washed away, but the feeling of change remains.

"Ready?" Brad asks. He has come closer. I feel my heart hammering against the green sequins of my top. My flat stomach tenses involuntarily, the muscles becoming even more prominent under the oval neckline.

Britney spins me around in the chair so I'm looking directly into the mirror. She blow-dries my hair, and with every puff of air, it becomes lighter, brighter, almost ethereal.

I stare at my reflection and hardly recognize myself. The dark blonde I've had my whole life is gone. Instead, almost white, silver-shimmering strands now frame my face. The extremely light tone makes my eyes look much darker and larger, almost hungry. My skin suddenly looks much more delicate and tanned, which creates a stark contrast to my defined shoulders and hard six-pack.

"Oh god," I whisper. My voice sounds small. I lift a hand and cautiously touch a strand. It feels silky, completely different from the familiar hair I usually just tie into a ponytail before heading to the field.

"It's perfect," Brad says from behind me. I see his reflection. He looks satisfied, almost proud, as if he has finished a sculpture. "You no longer look like a girl from Germany, Jette. You are now Tinkerbell. My Tinkerbell for the event."

The word "my" sends a strange shiver down my neck. In northern Germany, I probably would have retorted with something witty, but here, in this skimpy, glittering leaf dress and with these strange, light hair, I can't get a word out. I feel exposed, but at the same time strangely secure under his gaze. It's as if the authority he has taken over relieves me of the pressure to have to be someone myself.

I slowly turn in front of the mirror. The hem of the dress swings a little, my thong flashes for a brief moment under the dress, and the wings on my back tremble slightly. I am so small and delicate, and with this white hair I almost look fragile—if it weren't for the athletic hardness of my body, which is so mercilessly emphasized by the costume.

"Do you like it?" Britney asks, setting the hairdryer aside.

I look at Brad, then back in the mirror. I'm no longer Jette, the one who scores goals. I am something new. "Yes, it's unusual, strange, but it really does look great," I reply quietly and lower my head so the light strands cover my face. "It's... it makes the costume look completely different."

I look at the clock and we still have half an hour left.