Strands in the Pyramid

Maya found the gray hair in the bathroom mirror of her corner office—the one with floor-to-ceiling windows that made her feel like she was hovering above the city. At thirty-seven, climbing the corporate pyramid had cost her more than weekends and sleep. It had cost her the ability to recognize the woman staring back.

She remembered wearing hats to interviews in her twenties, fedoras and berets that made her feel like someone playing a role. Now she didn't need props. She'd become the role itself: sharp-elbowed, strategically ruthless, the kind of woman who sent emails at 11 PM on Sundays.

The spinach in her lunch container had gone soggy, exactly like her principles. She'd thrown her former mentor under the bus last week. Not literally—just failed to mention his contributions to the merger that secured her promotion. He'd resigned yesterday without a goodbye.

"You look different," her assistant said, pausing in the doorway. "More... settled."

Maya laughed, sharp and bitter. "Is that what they call selling out?"

"No," the younger woman said quietly. "It's what they call being the boss."

The spinach turned her stomach. She thought about calling her mother, who always said Maya's hair was her crowning feature, long and dark and impossible to tame. Now she wondered if the gray strand was a warning, or just the beginning of becoming the person she'd pretended to be for so long that she'd forgotten how to be anything else.

She threw the lunch away, hat and all, and called the man whose career she'd derailed. Someone had to be the first to climb down from the pyramid before the whole thing collapsed.