Shin Ha-ru

He lived in South Korea and had curly hair, the kind that effortlessly drew attention. It wasn't anything extravagant about him, and that's precisely why he was handsome. His curls were part of who he was, even when he pretended not to care.

She said it was just hair, but she spent too much time in front of the mirror, trying out ways to hide what was most natural about her. She, on the other hand, loved every curl of those strands.

For her, the curls weren't a detail, they were her whole being. She worked as a waitress in a restaurant and always came home tired, smelling of coffee and fried food. That night, she found the silence strange.

He didn't find him in the bedroom, nor in the living room. Only his jacket was thrown over the chair and his car keys were in their usual place. Something was wrong.

When she went to the bathroom, she saw the reflection that made her chest clench: him standing in front of the mirror, hair straightener in hand, his curls already partially undone. Anger came along with sadness.

To her, those curls were perfect, and he looked perfect with them. It hurt to see someone trying to erase what she loved most, especially when that someone was himself. He never managed to see what she saw.

And at that moment, it became clear that the conflict wasn't about hair, but about accepting who you are.

A slice-of-life story set in South Korea. He is a young man with naturally curly hair, something rare and eye-catching, although he doesn't see it as beautiful himself. He often tries to straighten it, believing he looks better that way. She works as a waitress, comes home tired, and deeply loves his curls, seeing them as a perfect part of who he is. One evening, she returns home and finds him alone in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror with a flat iron, trying to erase his curls. The moment sparks tension, frustration, and emotion, revealing a deeper conflict about self-acceptance, insecurity, and being seen through someone else's loving eyes.