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When Paige was a kid, she wore her hair long.
Not very long, mind you. But longer than any of her brothers. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, where it brushed along her skin whenever she stood in the shower.
Whenever she and Sam would play in the fields that neared their home, Paige would put her hair in a short ponytail. Mostly because Sam liked to pull on it if he felt like she was gaining the upper hand. At least this way he wasn’t liable to rip it out in weird clumps that Mom didn’t like. It was worth it to watch Mom yell at Sam though.
Paige didn’t really think much of her hair. She liked it the way it was, and none of her family ever commented on it. She liked the way her mom would play with it absentmindedly while she read to her.
The point of hair didn’t really come up in Paige’s life until the neighbor boy commented on it.
Adam was Sam’s friend, but he and Paige got along well enough. The three of them liked to play together, claiming the vast expanse of the nearby fields for themselves. They would race through the tall grass and make up stories about exploring a new, untouched world. The three of them would stay out too late, until Paige’s mother called for them in a worried tone and Adam got that sheepish look in his eyes that said his own mother was likely looking for him.
They were playing sardines, and Adam had already found Paige. So they were huddled together under a log, absentmindedly fidgeting with the grass.
“Your hair is really long for a boy’s,” Adam said.
Paige didn’t respond. What was she meant to say to that?
For whatever reason, a pit opened up in her chest. A sinking feeling at those words, strung unthinkingly together. They stung, like the nettles that pressed into Paige’s bare feet.
Despite that moment, etched into Paige’s memory, it still takes her another twelve years before things start clicking.
At twenty, Paige has begun university. She got a scholarship, one that she worked tooth and nail to earn. She wouldn’t have been able to go to school otherwise.
Paige knows trans people exist. Even in the rural parts of Nesh, she hears stories. Not usually accompanied by judgement, but in the same way one would talk about a recent engagement or a new job.
Still, it took Paige a long time to consider that she might be one of those people. Being trans is something that happens to other people, not Paige.
Her roommate is trans, though. He takes shots every week and records logs of how his voice has been changing. He hasn’t been on T for very long, he explains to Paige. He’s really excited for what it’s going to do to him.
Paige wishes there was something that could turn her into a girl.
And that’s about when the puzzle pieces start slotting together.
She stands in front of the bathroom and realizes why she hates the seemingly ubiquitous hair that covers her body. Why she hates pictures of herself, and anything that captures her voice. She examines her hair - now close cropped, easy to take care of - and starts imagining herself with long hair.
The idea sparks something that might be joy.
That week, Paige goes out and buys a razor. In their shared bathroom, Paige shaves her chest. It’s messy, but she avoids cutting herself. It’s harder than it looks. Paige wonders how the girls can manage to shave their legs three times a week without going insane.
Paige looks at her bare chest, now absent of the dark hair that usually encompasses it. She cups her pectorals and tries to imagine what they would look like if they were a little rounder, a little bigger.
Paige tentatively smiles at herself in the mirror. Her hair has begun to reach the tops of her ears. She doesn’t plan on trimming it any time soon.
Years later, Paige has ensconced herself in womanhood.
More specifically, the type of womanhood that suits someone who works at a marketing company. She is someone to be taken seriously, a responsible and put together person.
She pays for the expensive laser hair removals. She comes to work in grey pencil skirts that show off her pale, smooth legs. She wears blouses and pantsuits. She doesn’t give much credit to the part of her that quietly yearns for the section of the clothing store with blue jeans.
Every morning, Paige meticulously tames her hair. She sweeps it into a high ponytail and cinches it tight enough to give her a headache by the time she arrives home. She pushes bobby pins into her hair, jamming into her skull with frustration at the small strands that just won’t stay in place. She sprays her hair down with tacky hairspray that lingers on her fingertips when she touches it. During the day, she hates the touch of her hair. Plasticky and dead. Not a hair out of place.
She goes home and the first thing she does is shower. She lets her long hair out of the ponytail and feels the full weight of it against her back. She runs her fingers through her hair, washing the hairspray out of it. She places the multitude of bobby pins on the rim of the tub. She closes her eyes, tilts her head back and lets the water wash it all away.
Paige now spends a fortune on her water bill, for how long she spends in the shower. Only a small part of it is spent sitting there, with the dull drum of the water on her skin. The rest of it is spent with body scrubs, with wide tooth combs, with cloying floral scents and long hair slowly clogging up the drain.
She tells herself every day that she chose this. She tells herself that she likes it. She likes the feeling of smooth legs and the cookie cutter shape of womanhood that she has enveloped herself in.
She chose this. She likes it.
While on the road with Faulkner and Carpenter, Paige’s last hair tie snaps.
She asks Carpenter for one, but Carpenter regards her with a raised eyebrow and says that she doesn’t pull her hair back. Paige swallows and nods.
She does not put her hair up for a long time after that last hair tie snaps. Paige is startled to find how well she likes it.
“Your hair suits you,” Dennis says one night.
Paige wishes Hayward were here to break the tension. He went to bed early tonight. It’s probably just an excuse for Dennis and Paige to be alone. To get some quality father daughter time.
“Thank you,” Paige forces herself to say.
Her hair has only gotten longer, falling near her hips at its full length. It snarls easily, but Paige combs it out with her fingers every morning and night. Her hair hasn’t seen the touch of hairspray in so long. Occasionally she grabs a pencil or a chopstick and wraps it into a messy but sustainable bun. Mostly she just keeps it down.
Paige likes it. She really does.
She really wants to go chop it all off now that her father has said something.
What right does he have to compliment her hair? He was never any help. He paid for her transition. Paige tries not to feel indebted to him for that. It’s easier when he intentionally lords it over her.
Paige finds it easier to rebel now. That’s probably a good thing.
Dennis opens his mouth to say something else, but closes it at the last second. Paige tells herself that she’s not curious about what he was going to say. Let him keep his silence.
Paige hates her hair.
She hates it.
There is not a single thing in this world that Paige hates more than her hair.
When she walks the streets, people flock to touch it like it would heal them, if only they could just touch it. They look at her in awe, and they tell her that her hair is beautiful.
Elgin pulls too tight when she sweeps Paige’s hair into a long, cascading braid. Paige doesn’t say that, but she hates it. She hates the constant stream of compliments from converts who get their first glimpse of the Widow of Wounds, as well as the long standing members of their faith, who seem to see her hair more than they see her.
Paige doesn’t brush her hair anymore. She lets it snarl and tangle, building up ferocious knots that she pulls at with bared teeth and unconcealed rage at her appearance. She watches clumps of her hair fall to the bathroom floor and she likes it, disconnected from her head.
There’s a lot of things to be angry about in Paige’s life. And somehow, the thing she finds herself angriest about is her hair.
It’s a little silly, which is why she hasn’t told anyone. Not even Hayward. What is she supposed to say? That the hair she spent years cultivating is now the greatest source of her self loathing?
It’s not even dysphoria, is the thing. It’s just pure rage.
It all comes to a head one night after a sermon. She made her appearances. She sat in the pews with her hair piled into a crown of braids and she let people touch it without biting their fingers off. She did her due diligence.
And now she stands in her bathroom (she is the only person who gets their own bathroom), knuckles whitening from her grip on the countertop. She imagines the counter breaking off in chunks. She looks at her hair and she cannot stand it.
Paige goes into her room, ignoring the bottles of booze on the floor. She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pair of scissors. God knows why Elgin is stupid enough to let her have scissors in her room. We wouldn’t want the Widow of Wounds hurting herself.
Paige isn’t sure when her thoughts started getting so dark.
She goes back into her bathroom and grabs the end of the braid. It takes a few tries before she has the braid fully cut off, but the feeling of holding it in her hands is worth it. She throws it in the trash, glad to be rid of it.
Paige looks at her hair, wondering if that’s enough. If she’s mutilated herself in the name of her godchild enough. She wonders if the people will still love her without hair to touch. She realizes that anyone who wants it bad enough would still be able to touch her hair, to take it in their hands and lovingly hold it.
Paige raises the scissors and keeps cutting. She lifts the strands into the air, pulling taut. She presses the scissors close, until she can feel the cold metal on her scalp. And Paige cuts.
Once she starts, Paige can’t seem to stop. Even as her hands begin to tremble, the realization that she can’t undo this settling in like stones on her shoulders.
Ten years of growing out her hair. All that remains now is a pile of the stuff at her feet.
Paige stands in front of the mirror, scissors clutched tightly to hide the shaking of her hand. She runs a tremulous hand through the clumps of hair that still remain. It’s patchy, ugly and brutish.
Paige doesn’t look anything like she wants to. She isn’t beautiful, she isn’t feminine. She looks awful.
Tears bud in Paige’s eyes, and she does not have the strength of will to keep them at bay. She lets the scissors fall onto the counter on top of a pile of hair. She swallows and sputters out a little sob.
Fuck.
Paige bows her head and the absence of hair falling around her face at the motion is felt a little too hard. She buries her hands in her face, drawing in breath with laboured intensity.
It’s perhaps a little dramatic to cry so hard over something so minor. There’s so much else going on, so many lives at stake and a cause that Paige needs to stand behind with unwavering faith. And yet she cries for her hair.
After a few minutes, there comes a knock at the bathroom door.
“Go away.”
There’s a moment of silence. Paige marvels at how easy that was, before there’s another knock at the door. Her irritation rises, before abruptly falling at the sound of a voice.
“It’s Hayward.”
And he’s not going to get it, he’s not going to understand why Paige is crying so hard over her hair. But she doesn’t hesitate to say, “Come in.”
“Whoa.”
Paige laughs, which morphs into a sob. “I know, it looks awful.”
Hayward hesitates. “N-no, it looks okay.”
His noble - however transparent - attempt at comforting Paige only makes her cry harder. She can feel hair on her skin, and it makes her itch.
Hayward hovers awkwardly for a moment before he gently takes her in his arms. He turns her so that her face is pressed into his chest and he wraps his arms around her back, holding her snug but not too tight.
The last time Hayward hugged Paige was when her father died. It feels like it’s been so long since then. Every now and then, Paige wishes Hayward would hold her like that again. Keep her snug in his arms and whisper that it would be okay, that she can let it out.
He does that now, and let it out she does. She cries and she lets out a closed teeth scream in frustration over herself and this world. She hates it here. She hates her god. She hates her congregation. She hates herself.
The last time Hayward held her, he ran his fingers through her hair, gently combing it out. This time, he runs his fingers through what clumps remain on the back of her hair. He gives no indication that it is anything less than satisfying to the touch. The motion is repetitive and soothing. Eventually, Paige’s tears subside.
“I’m sorry,” Paige whispers.
“It’s alright,” Hayward says.
He’s so solid in her arms. Sturdy muscle and bone holding her up like a rock in a vicious storm. He loosens his hold on her and Paige steps back. He remains in arm’s reach. Paige can still feel his lingering body heat against her chest.
“It’s just so-” Paige cuts herself off, knowing that she won’t be able to articulate the layers of self hatred and the politics and all the reasons she hates her hair, and the even stranger reasons why she regrets cutting it.
“Yeah,” Hayward says, like he gets it. He probably doesn’t. But the fact that he’s willing to pretend for Paige’s sake means a lot.
“I just thought it would make me feel better.”
“No dice, I take it?”
“No. It looks awful.”
“Aw, come on. It’s not so bad.”
Paige laughs. She looks at herself in the mirror and feels tears well in her eyes again. “Hayward, look at it. It’s terrible. Just- there are clumps in the back, see? And it’s all weird in the front too, it’s just- it’s not pretty.”
Hayward looks at her reflection, apparently considering. “I think you still look beautiful.”
Paige can’t find it in herself to believe him. She rolls her eyes. “Come on, Hayward.”
“Okay, okay. I can understand why you don’t like it. Hold on, let me- stay here, yeah? I’ll be right back.”
Hayward is out the door before Paige can ask him what he’s doing. She’s left alone in the bathroom, nothing but the silent air to keep her company.
There’s nothing to do but sweep the hair up and put it in the trash. So Paige busies herself doing that. She uses her hands, taking the long strands of hair and letting is fall into the trash bin with less viciousness than she wants. When she’s finished, she washes her hands in the sink and watches the little hairs float down the drain.
Hayward returns soon after that, carrying a stool in one hand and something else tucked under his armpit. He sets the stool down in the middle of the bathroom, gesturing for Paige to sit on it. She gets comfortable while Hayward opens the case, revealing hair clippers.
“Where did you get that?” Paige asks.
“Borrowed it. I used to have my own set, back when I was a cop.”
Paige remembers Hayward’s short hair. Nowadays, his hair is long, able to be swept into a short bun at the nape of his neck. He has a near permanent five o’clock shadow, but it suits him unreasonably well. Hayward has always looked handsome, but these days he looks comfortable as well.
Paige does wish she could press her hand to Hayward’s jawline, to feel the stubble on her palm. She wishes for a lot of things. But she’s not a brave woman.
Hayward attaches a clip to the blade and presses it, the room filling with the sound of its vibrations. He holds it to Paige’s hair, and meets her eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“You ready?” Hayward asks.
Paige looks into Hayward’s eyes and finds such steadiness that she doesn’t hesitate to nod.
The first press of the clippers feels odd, and the small hairs that fall onto Paige’s shoulders itch. But slowly, she watches her hair take shape. She watches as Hayward dutifully runs the clippers along every inch of her scalp. He dedicates himself to the task, running his calloused hand along her skull to catch any lingering hair. Paige closes her eyes, allowing herself to relish in the feeling.
It isn’t long before Hayward straightens and says, “Open your eyes.”
Paige opens her eyes.
Her dark hair is short, spiky to the touch. She can see her widow’s peak on full display. For the first time in years, Paige can see her ears without having to move her hair out of the way.
Paige lets out an exhale, and it sounds like a breathless laugh.
“How does it feel?”
“It’s so light,” Paige says. She hadn’t realized that at first, too caught up in her own feelings to savor the lightness of her head. The way she can toss and turn her head so easily. “It looks…”
Paige can no longer be mistaken for beautiful, or even regal. But she does look commanding. The shape of her face looks harsher without hair framing it, and she finds that she likes it. Paige looks like a force to be reckoned with.
“Badass,” Hayward says.
Paige looks up at Hayward through the reflection. He looks so proud of her. Paige doesn’t know what she did to deserve this. She grins. “Badass.”
Hayward rubs his hand over Paige’s head, grinning like a maniac. He has such a handsome smile. “A proper look for the Widow of Wounds, I think.”
Paige likes that idea. That she doesn’t have to be bound to a certain look in order to be the leader that her people need.
Hayward lets Paige admire herself in the mirror. She looks down at him sweeping up the hair and can feel the words bubbling up on her tongue, pressing on her throat. She swallows them.
She may love Hayward, but she cannot risk everything for him. Not right now. Not for the first time, Paige wishes they'd met in different circumstances. That they could go out for drinks like everyone else. That Paige could woo him with flowers and he would shower her in love and make her feel special. She wishes that she could love him like someone who doesn't have a godchild resting on her shoulders.
Really, Paige just hopes that one day they will have the peace for her to love Hayward the way she wants to.