Karmad

  I’ve always believed that art is an extension of the soul. I am Jenny 35 years old. My paintings were my voice when words failed me—bold, vibrant, alive. But lately, my canvas felt as empty as my spirit. Every morning, I’d stare into the mirror, watching helplessly as strands of my hair coiled around the bristles of my brush like fallen soldiers. It started slowly—just a few extra hairs in the drain. Then, entire clumps came loose when I ran my fingers through it. I tried everything: salon treatments that burned my scalp, shampoos that smelled like chemicals and false promises, even strange internet remedies involving eggs and coconut oil. Nothing worked. The more my hair thinned, the smaller I felt. I stopped wearing it down. Avoided photos. Even my art grew dull, the colors muted by the heaviness in my chest. One gloomy afternoon, I wandered through the farmer’s market, not really looking for anything—just trying to escape the stifling silence of my apartment. That’s when I sa...