Lolita’s sister

This morning again, I'm watching my little sister do duvets in front of the mirror. She loves her hair between blonde and brown. She can spend hours watching hairdressing tutorials to find out what she will do to her hair but she almost always comes back to her usual high duvets.

In her school uniform, she looks very cute. However, it is not other young people of his age who come to approach him or ask him for his number. They are men. Often more than forty years. Every time, I feel my heart miss a beat. Her little nose wrinkles and she offers a forced smile to the man of the day, clearly wanting to hide behind me but, at thirteen, she tells herself that it would not mature on her part, that they would be even more interested despite her rejections.

I can see that she is starting to change. Not really at the level of his physique. Her breasts are still tiny, barely out. His hips are barely wider than the previous year. Damn, she just started getting her period!

It is on the mental level that things change. She goes out less and less often without being accompanied by at least one other person. She almost always has a big hoodie with her and puts on the hood as soon as an adult approaches. Her pretty skirts and tights are replaced by colorful joggers that are often too wide. She does everything to hide her body if there are not at least three people by her side for the entire duration she goes out in public. She, who loves skirts and crop-tops so much, no longer dares to dress as she really wants because she feels the looks follow her wherever she goes.

She no longer goes to the municipal swimming pool, nor to the park and even less on the swings. She no longer bends down to pick up what she escapes, preferring to tell herself that she is a polluter rather than realizing that an adult is still looking at her buttocks. She begged our parents to have a cell phone just to be able to call us when she thinks she is alone and there are men around.

She talks less, eats less, sleeps less. She stopped noticing when boys her age are interested in her. When we look at her for more than a few seconds, she feels attacked. She went from passionate, playful and playful to shy, sad and closed.

However, despite the fact that it hurts her, it is always possible to hear the people of the neighborhood talking. They call her Lolita.