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Snufkin looked down into the river below.
Eugh.
He averted his gaze from his reflection, trying not to focus too much on his hair.
His hair.
It was too long.
It flowed down to his shoulders in curly auburn locks, making his face look rounder than it already was.
Usually he would’ve gotten a knife and cut it by now, but he had put it off. This was the longest it’s been in years.
Moomintroll loved running his fingers through it and playing with it, and Snufkin would enjoy it at first, until he got that awful feeling in his chest.
He remembered the first time he cut his hair, and how it felt.
His father had been visiting for a short time. The Joxter came and went, occasionally sending letters in his child-like writing, but for the most part, he would only talk to Snufkin whenever he dropped into Moominvalley.
He wasn’t a bad father, really. Snufkin loved him very much. He just had a need to go wherever the wind took him, and Snufkin understood that.
He remembered being at his campfire, prodding at the logs with a stick while the Joxter laid on the ground nearby. He was humming to himself with his hat over his eyes.
He remembered the bubbling in his chest. The need to shout out what had been eating at him for years, to scream his throat raw, to yell and yell to anyone who would listen.
He remembered what came out instead.
A soft, “Dad?”
“Yes?” The Joxter raised his hat off of his eyes.
Snufkin’s words were caught in his throat for just a second, and he had to use every ounce of courage inside of him to force them out. “I don’t think I’m a Mymble.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think I ever was.”
“Huh. Then what are you?”
“A Snufkin.”
The Joxter whistled to himself. “That’s fine.”
Then it was back to silence.
For something that had been eating at him for years, it was quite an anticlimactic resolution. But he didn’t mind.
He remembered waking up the next morning, and the Joxter was sharpening his knife.
He remembered what he said to him.
“Well, you’re not a Mymble.” He waved his knife in the air. “Would you like a trim?”
Snufkin’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. “Yes.”
He remembered sitting on the log as the Joxter hacked away at his curls. He watched the tufts of hair fall onto the ground, feeling like he was doing something forbidden. Something taboo. Something wrong. He almost felt embarrassed, but sat through his anxiety.
He remembered looking into the river, looking at his brand new reflection.
And he remembered crying, fat tears rolling down his blotchy skin and staining the Joxter’s coat. His father held him and rubbed circles into his back, not saying a word, but his presence was enough.
His dad stayed extra long for this particular visit. He was young at the time, so he hid behind the Joxter as he explained to Moominpappa and Moominmamma what had happened. He stuck his hands in his pockets, embarrassed and afraid, but was met with a warm hug from Moominmamma and a pat on the shoulder from Moominpappa.
“We love you, dear.”
“You’ll make a fine Snufkin, my boy.”
He remembered his father telling him to pack up his things.
“We’re going on a short trip.”
They walked up the mountain trail and over the Lonely Mountains, off past the deserts and to a rather large town. It was crowded, which made his anxiety spike, but the Joxter held his hand the entire time as they made their way to their destination.
He remembered that stuffy old shop. It smelled like dust and lemons, and there were old clothes everywhere. The owner was an old man with round glasses, and he didn’t seem to care that they were there.
The Joxter pulled out several items of clothing, and out of all of them, the only ones he liked were an oversized green coat, a loose fitting white button up and dark green pants.
He really liked the color green. It reminded him of the forest, his freedom in nature, and the freedom he had found just now.
He remembered taking off his blouse, shedding it like a second skin. He put on his new clothes, staring at himself in the mirror. He twisted and turned, looking at himself at every angle.
His face didn’t look different. His body didn’t change. He didn’t magically grow a few inches. But in that moment, nothing mattered, because the biggest smile spread over his face and tears threatened to leak out of his eyes from pure joy.
He remembered walking out of the shop with his new clothes. He felt antsy, as if everyone walking on those busy streets was staring at him, but he walked with a freedom he had never felt before. He felt as if he needed to hide from the public’s view, but he also felt as if he wanted to scream his joy from the rooftops.
Instead, he reveled in quiet, unadulterated joy.
The Joxter eventually let go of his hand, but he didn’t even notice.
He was walking all by himself.
He remembered getting back to Moominvalley. It was a bit warm for his new coat, but he wore it anyway, no matter how much he sweat in it. It was big and it was green and it was warm and it was his.
He remembered how things got as he got older. The initial joy that came with looking at himself became disdain as he grew, in more ways than one.
He remembered the bandages. He had some in his bag, and he tied them tight against his body until his ribs ached and his breath was short.
He carried on, biting his tongue whenever the pain got particularly bad.
He didn’t want to say anything.
He never intended to.
He remembered fainting on a summer day, as he was traveling with the Moomins towards the beach. Moominmamma took off his coat in case it was heat stroke, and immediately noticed the problem.
He remembered her taking his measurements. He felt naked and ugly without his bandages, like he wasn’t supposed to be seen without them. He refused to look at himself in the mirror that sat in the corner in the room. Moominmamma didn’t make him.
She sewed for days and days, not telling him what she was making. He wasn’t allowed to wear the bandages anymore, but he didn’t protest because they had created ugly purple and blue splotches against his ribcage.
Even if he didn’t protest, he still felt bad. He felt misshapen, like his body curved in the worst ways possible. He refused to leave his tent, until one day, Moominmamma knocked on the door and told him she was done.
He remembered what he saw. It was a white half-tank top, and it looked ordinary in every way possible. He wasn’t sure why she made him this, but she urged him to put it on inside the house.
He remembered finally looking in the mirror.
The pure elation was overwhelming. He had to sit down, face in his hands, and just breathe as Moominmamma rubbed his shoulders.
He remembered, he remembered, he remembered.
He looked down into the river again. He wasn’t paying attention to anything else, until a hand grabbed his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Hey.” Said a soft voice. Snufkin looked up. It was Moomintroll.
“Hey.” Snufkin replied. He looked back down into the river.
Moomintroll twirled a strand of hair around his finger. “Your hair’s getting quite long,” He murmured, “Why don’t we cut it today? I’ll help you.”
Snufkin looked up into Moomintroll’s face. He smiled.
“Yes, I think I’d like that.”