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At the Farm, you have no control over your body. Your mind. They have made you in their image, and they will do with you what they see fit.
She knew this well. She’d sit, silent and unmoving, as they regularly buzzed her hair short, until the prickling hair gave way to smooth skin. Their tests often required them to attach wires and tubes to her cranium; the hair hindered their machines.
Still, when days would pass and the hair would regrow, she would lie in her bunk and run the pads of her fingers over her skull. The short, raised hair jabbed at her digits as if in irritation. In rebellion.
It was one of the only times her mouth would stretch into a slow, soft smile.
Years later, when she’s Isadora Basri, when she’s Sidestep, she realizes that her hair is growing. It’s longer than it’s ever been. Often she’ll stare at herself in the mirror. Instead of tracing the lines and swirls of orange interrupting brown skin, she looks at the ink black hair.
She’s never cut her hair before. She’s not going to go out somewhere and get it cut.
Seconds bleed into minutes into hours, possibly. Isadora runs a careful hand through the hair, feels the strands respond to her touch and part for her.
Growing it out, then. That’s what she’ll do.
It’s been a few weeks since Isadora took off the mask in front of Ortega. Her fingers still feel stiff and clumsy when she pulls down the hood, but it’s easier to meet the woman’s gaze now.
They’re lounging atop the roof of a building, feet dangling in the air. The people below them look like ants; there’s no way they’ll see them, even if they look up. With that comforting thought, Isadora peels off her mask, takes a breath, then fixes her sweat-damp hair with a gloved hand.
It’s much longer now. Comes to her ears. Sometimes, after a particularly long day, strands of hair will plaster themselves to her forehead. It can be irritating, but Isadora likes it all the same.
Right now, though, she’s frowning. Muttering under her breath about how annoying it is.
Ortega turns, hands braced behind her. Her eyes rove her features, dark and undecipherable, before she breaks into a grin. “Well, I like it,” she says simply. “It suits you, Isa.”
Isadora’s hand freezes. She can feel a flush travelling up her throat, to settle in her cheeks. This time she doesn’t have her mask on to hide it.
She huffs and looks away, no longer fussing with her hair. Just sits back, lets the minds below become a murmur, and focuses on the static filling Ortega’s.
For a while, it goes like this.
Months pass and her hair grows longer, as if to mark them.
She can tuck her hair behind her ears now. Sometimes, Ortega will try to braid portions of it. Anathema will ruffle her hair after every fight. It grows and grows and Isadora grows with it.
Then Heartbeak happens.
Then she jumps from a window.
Then the Farm comes for her.
Dark hair pools at her feet, resembling black holes. She sits, silent and shaking, as they buzz her hair short. Tears slip down her cheeks, but she does not make a sound.
Later, much later, she lies in her bunk and runs the pads of her fingers over her skull. Soft skin greets her.
She doesn’t have a mirror to see how she looks, here.
Maybe it’s for the best.