Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Hair

In the silence, without thinking, I spoke aloud an observation I made the first time I saw Master Skirk and couldn’t stop thinking about:

“You look like a man.”

I’d said it out of fascination— admiration, even. Master Skirk hadn’t looked like any other woman I’ve seen before. She conducted herself in a way where you could tell she knew she was always in control. Her hair was ragged, short, cut unneatly and left to sit however it may like. She had a sharp jawline and didn’t hesitate to scowl when she was displeased. She allowed herself to— no, demanded to take up space; she was brash, loud, boisterous. She made her opinions known and never refrained from speaking harsh but necessary words.

She wasn’t submissive, quiet, humble, well-behaved. She wasn’t “womanly” like the way I had been taught to be for all my 14 years of living.

“You look like a man,” I said plainly, not recognizing my own ignorance on the matter. She tilted her head to the side and looked down at me, scoffing like I had amused her.

“Is that so?” She simply asked, and I could only gaze up at her in wonder. That’s the moment I realized: I want to be like her.

When I had first fallen into the abyss, and when she had first found me, she took my braided hair and held it gingerly in her hand.

“This won’t do,” she sighed, “Your hair is quite long, a braid wouldn’t be enough.”

“Enough?” I echoed.

“It’s not practical for battle. It would get in the way, yes?”

I was still naive, then.

My mother had been the one who taught me how to braid my hair. And although I could do it myself after that, she still insisted on doing it for me when given the opportunity. She enjoyed playing with my hair— she admitted it herself.

“You should always take care of your beautiful hair, okay?” She told me.

“Yes, mama.”

“It would be a shame if something happened to it. It’s so soft between my fingers, I want to braid it for you until my hands grow too old to move,” she said with her delicate smile. It’s so hard to remember what her smile looks like now, but I do remember how it made me feel so loved.

Master Skirk had sat me down on a makeshift stool and unraveled my hair, combed through it with her fingers. I studied her expression from the mirror she put me in front of. She seemed to admire my hair the same way my mother had.

“Your hair is well-kept.”

“Mhm.”

Her hands collected the ginger strands, pulled them tight towards herself and smoothed them out. The thread that I tied my hair with was between her teeth as she worked. Her touch was comforting. Whenever she handled me, she was always gentle, as if I was her own child. Even though she seemed like the complete opposite of my mother, times like that were when I felt like I was back home. It was a wildly different treatment than when she was training me to fight and survive down in the abyss.

Has she ever had children of her own? If not, had she wished to have any? Am I an example of what could have been? I thought to myself, as she wrapped my hair into a tight bun. When she was done, I stared into the mirror, tilting my head to this side and that to examine her work.

“I’ve never worn my hair this way.” I said.

“Well,” she pulled a few strands out and placed them in front of my ears, framing my face, “it’s nice to try new things, isn’t it?”

I trusted that Master Skirk always knew best, and this matter was no exception. I would fight hard, and my hair was out of the way, like it wasn’t even there at all. By the end of my training session, the few pieces that came undone were glued to my face with sweat. She would come over, wipe my forehead, and tuck the strands behind my ear as she congratulated me and began to talk about what to improve on. Her hand would linger, caress my cheek. I was covered in scars and bruises and my heart was beating so fast I could barely breathe, but the moment was so tender, calm. She’d tell me my exhaustion was evidence of my hard work, and my heavy panting should ignite pride in my heart; for it proved I was still alive.

Like I said, her hair was quite short. The shortest I’ve ever seen on a woman. It barely hugged her ears, and was uneven. She never paid any mind to it. Unlike my mother, who taught me to always keep it tidy. The only time my hair was cut, it was merely a trim. It reached down to my lower back. My mother would even apply oil to my roots that she said would “help it grow faster and healthier.” Of course, now, my hair was raggled and my split ends would have probably caused her to collapse at the sight of them.

How would she feel, seeing me in this state?

Soon, I mustered up the courage to ask something of my Master. I kneeled before her and asked in a shaky voice, “Master, may I ask you a favor?”

“What is it, child?”

I’d recited this in my head a thousand times just a few moments prior. I swallowed the excess saliva that had gathered in my mouth.

“Can you cut my hair? Short, like yours,” I requested, looking up at her on her throne. Her gaze made my stomach churn during her silence.

“Alright.” she finally said.

“Excuse my lack of, uh… appropriate tools.”

I was back in the same stool, in front of that same mirror. She untied the thread securing my hair in place and I shuddered a bit as it spilled down my back. She had a dagger in her right hand, and in her left, she collected my hair again and grasped it tightly.
“Now, are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” I replied shakily, clearly lacking confidence in my answer.

“Well then, straighten up,” she pushed her elbow into my back, forcing me to fix my posture. “If you’re so sure, you shouldn’t be nervous.”

And with one swift movement, I felt lighter. She continued to hack away at the rest of my hair, much like she would have done to herself, I imagined.

When she was finished, she tucked her fingers in my hair and shook it out. A few stray hairs fell onto my shoulders, which I had finally relaxed.

“You like it? I’m not really a professional, so, even if you don’t, you’ll have to live with it.”

I adored it. I had not a single issue with it. I could only stare at my reflection, is that really me? I thought. I didn’t reply, but it seemed like the reflection of my mouth agape with awe in the mirror was a satisfactory answer for her.

“I think short hair complements you,” She told me, as she ran her fingers through my new haircut. I agreed. It suits me perfectly.

When I had come home from those long three months– which had actually only been 3 days on the surface, I would come to learn– my mom ran to me frantically, and her first words to me were about my hair.

“My poor daughter!” she shouted, shoving past my sisters. She grasped at the remains of it, the accumulation of grime and sweat dirtying her hands.

“Your hair, what happened to it?!”

Without giving me a moment to open my mouth, she pulled me into a tight, selfish embrace and held me captive, like I might disappear again if she didn’t grip me as hard as she could.

“Oh, my precious girl… I’m so sorry…” she mumbled over and over as she stroked my head, an attempt at comforting me.

Those words began to infuriate me. I didn’t know why yet, not completely. But I knew that they made me want to curl into myself, made me want to vomit. I struggled in her hold, but she didn’t budge.