One time, when I was in high school, I went to the hairdresser’s to get my hair done.
I was wearing a shirt that I remember well. It was all buttoned up; I wasn't trying to seduce anyone.
The guy was doing my hair, but he would let his hand linger over my chest. Then he slipped it inside my shirt, touching and groping me.
I looked into the mirror. No, I wasn’t imagining it. He really was doing this.

I looked around me; people were coming and going.
A woman was sitting next to me getting her hair done and his hand was still inside my shirt.
When he removed his hand, I put my hand on my shirt, but he just removed it and put his hand inside my shirt again.
I didn't shout or scream. I felt blank. I paid and left.

Afterwards, I asked my friends who used to go to the same hairdresser if anything similar had happened to them there, but they all said no.
I didn’t understand why, why me?
Was there something about me that made him think he could do that?
I didn't go to the hairdresser for a while after that, and of course, I never wore that shirt again.
Till this day, I haven't told anyone else about the incident.

I was glad when the hairdresser passed away, and none of my friends understood why.
My reaction still upsets me most of all: that I didn't say anything. I just froze in place from the shock.
I should’ve screamed and shouted and told him to take his hands off me. I should've hit him.