Chapter Text
Tommy can't spare the iron for shears during exile. He's not used to the amount of hair he grows; he doesn’t know how to care for it. He probably couldn't care for it even if he did know. Whatever. It doesn't really matter anyway, because he can't bring himself to try. By the time he steps off his tower and leaves Logsted behind, he's pretty sure his hair has become irreparably matted.
He almost cuts it down close to the roots at Techno’s. Instead, he painstakingly detangles it and gives it a ratty trim, putting it up in a small ponytail. It isn’t just an attempt to handle the mess on top of his head, but a step towards trying to handle the mess inside of it, too.
His hands rise to his hair as he sits stuffed in a box in the cabin, trying to hide (trying to try to hide). It's hard to decide whether he's glad he has so much to clutch at or whether he wishes he had gone through with chopping it all off so he couldn't rip it out the way he is. It's hard to decide anything at this time in his life.
Somewhere along the line, he pulls a little chunk out of the ponytail and turns it into a braid. It’s not nearly as impressive as Techno’s, not as long or sleek or stylish, but that’s not the point.
He undoes it after the confrontation at the Community House. The strands stay hanging in front of his face, and they get scorched on Doomsday.
He stops keeping his hair in a constant ponytail after Dream is locked up, and he starts trying to take care of it while he builds his hotel. Proper care, this time. He thinks it might be growing faster than before, although it’s a little hard to tell since it seems to grow outward a bit instead of just down. It’s tempting to give up on it sometimes. To let the tangles form into a bird's nest on his head again or just take the shears to it like he’d almost done before. He keeps trying anyway, and he learns, and it gets a little easier to stop tying it back up in frustration. His hair falls in soft, clumped curls when he goes to get closure with Dream.
He chops it off almost immediately after he’s finally let out of the prison. Putting blades as close to his skin as he does throws him into an even deeper panic, but he just can't stand to keep his hair long; he swears he can feel phantom hands gripping it hard enough to burn, ready to slam him into the obsidian again. And again. And again and again until his skull cracks open and he's in the void being torn apart over and over—
He keeps his hair cut short until he's no longer so terrified of Dream fulfilling his promise of escaping. He wants to try to adapt to how things are now and accept that he really is safe at last. A few locks brush his face as he buries his war gear in Logsted, ready to leave his life of fear behind him.
Months later, as he desperately runs from where the chest lays empty, Dream's fist tangles in his hair again and yanks him back.