Chapter Text
Of all the nations - before they were known to the world as genocidal maniacs - the Fire Nation had been known for their culture and their values. They were honorable and brave.
Over time, the Fire Nation’s love of their culture slowly faded into a distant memory of the older generations. The summer festivals were slowly replaced with military boot camps for young boys and girls who were eager to join in Sozin’s Cause. Traditional kabuki theaters gave way to propaganda straight from the Fire Lord’s public relations offices. Intricate silk patterns were replaced with the plain fabrics, easy for movement and combat.
However, for all the changes Sozin and Azulon made, even they could not touch some traditions.
Hair was sacred in many cultures, with the general exception among the male Air Nomads, who would prefer to feel the wind upon their scalp.
The Water Tribes believed their hair connected them to their ancestors and held memories. It was only to be cut when a great loss occurred.
For the wide and diverse Earth Kingdom, their hair was styled elaborately and decorated with the finest jewels and hairpins.
In the Fire Nation, hair represented the soul and spirituality. How you wore your hair, and how well your hair was taken care of, signaled to the rest of the world what kind of person you were.
The top knot was standard for men and women. The half-up and half-top knot styles were typically reserved for nobility, though their hair was not decorated to the same degree as was popular in the Earth Kingdom.
Some nationalists would speak of Earth Kingdom styles with scorn. How could their hairpins cost more than a house? Even the Fire Nation’s royal family only wore simple, gold crowns, with no additional embellishments.
They said that long ago, the plain crowns had been a sign of humility from the first Fire Lord. Long ago, the crown was meant only to represent to other nations who the wearer was, for Agni and her people would always know who the Fire Lord was by their character.
Long ago, that was the way.
In the palace now, after three generations of war, it felt shameful to even think about the traditions of the old.
Princess Ursa was a soft-spoken woman. Most times, she was too quiet to hear. Too many times, when her children needed her most, she did not speak at all.
But after, when Ozai had left in all his fury and rage, she would run the bath.
Sitting in the warm bath as his mother washed his hair was one of Zuko’s favorite memories of his mother. Azula pretended to be annoyed by the tradition, but Zuko knew she liked it just as much as he did.
He wondered if their mother knew that. Azula and Ursa always seemed to be at odds with each other, with Zuko caught in the crossfire more often than not.
Hair washing was not something that was one of Ursa’s duties, as a princess of the royal family. She could have easily had a maid wash her children’s hair. The royal family seemed wholly ready to leave behind the traditions of their ancestors, ready to run towards a future of complete power over the world.
Ursa, the quiet princess, held steadfast on this matter, no matter how much Ozai tried to convince her otherwise. He did not care about their hair or how Ursa spent her time. It was just one more thing he wanted to take from her because he could.
Eventually, he grew bored of the debate and resumed his place at Azulon’s side, continuing his work to try and undermine Iroh as heir apparent.
In the bath, Zuko felt momentary peace. The soft nutty smell of the rice shampoo wafted into the air, and the sweet floral jasmine of the hair oils grounded him. More often than not, he drifted off to sleep as his mother gently brushed her fingers through his wet hair.
And then, she was gone, along with Grandfather Azulon. Zuko only missed his mother.
***
In those first few months on the Wani , Zuko couldn’t wash his hair - what was left of it - even if he wanted to. Every day, he felt his skin burn, even though it stopped burning months ago. It should have been the healer’s responsibility to wash Zuko’s hair, but she never did. Instead, Iroh would slip into Zuko’s room, quietly humming a soft tune that Zuko did not know. He placed the warm basin next to the bed and delicately set to work.
The first time Iroh tried to wash his hair - well, the first time Zuko was conscious - it sent him into a full-blown panic attack. He was hyperventilating and it was making him dizzy and everything was burning burning burning and Uncle’s hands were the same size as Father’s-
In the end, Iroh ended up abandoning the bath, in favor of trying to calm down his nephew.
The second time, Iroh learned his lesson and warned the boy first. Zuko gripped his sheets as hard as he could with trembling hands, as Iroh gently scrubbed his hair. The rice shampoo calmed Zuko down, but there was no sweet jasmine hair oil or his mother’s ylang-ylang perfume.
Just rice and Oolong tea and the stinging salty air which burned.
Uncle holds him close as he cries and Zuko pretends not to notice the way Iroh’s hands shake too.
***
By the time they reach the Western Air Temple, Zuko’s blood-matted hair has been shaved down to a Phoenix tail.
The Phoenix tail is the traitor’s hairstyle. Brandished by only the truly unlucky for the harshest of sins. Ironically, Ozai has some fondness for traditions as the order for his head to be shaved comes attached to another world-shattering letter. He is banished and his only chance of returning home rests on finding the Avatar. The same avatar his ancestors killed 100 years ago.
Zuko tries not to think about the irony. He tries not to be mutinous, to be an even bigger traitor than he already is. He tries not to think about the 41st Division as he stares into the pile of Air Nomad skeletons.
Some of them are so, so small and Zuko is doubled over before he realizes what’s going on. Uncle simply pats his back gently as he loses his lunch.
***
Years later, as Zuko shaves off his Phoenix tail, he wonders how it is possible for him to feel even more shameful than with the ponytail.
Uncle has no trouble cutting his hair and tossing it into the river. It’s almost like he’s been waiting to destroy the last thing that made him Fire Nation.
***
There’s not much time for philosophizing in Ba Sing Se.
Zuko isn’t used to having to wash his hair so much. He scrubs harshly, digging his nails sometimes. It’s like he has a relentless itch that he can’t scratch.
The soap is unscented, just made from Gemsbok bull tallow. They can’t afford scented soap. Zuko doesn’t know what scent he would buy if he could. Doesn’t know if he would buy anything that personal at all.
When his nails dig too deep and he’s bleeding, Uncle gives him that same sad stare from the Wani .
The only difference is Zuko had a purpose then.
***
When Zuko returns to the Fire Nation, the betrayal of his Uncle is fresh in his mind, he wears a top knot. He struggled relentlessly to try and fold it into the traditional style. It slipped out every time. Eventually, Mai helped him secure the hair and even managed to slide the crown into place.
As Zuko looks at the strands of hair fighting their way out of the ribbon, and the crookedness of the crown, he tries not to think about the symbolic significance of anything to do with hair.
He can’t help feeling like now might be the only time in his life that he deserves to wear the Phoenix Tail.