[5.31.22]

[Felt like writing this little moment down. I found it sweet how much she likes my long hair. She was so distraught when I burned sections of it. Though now apparently my hair is “medium” length, despite being able to come down to the bottom edge of my ribcage lmao.]

I wove my hands through my long, red hair as she drove us home. I paused when I found what I searched for: a section of burnt hair, touched by embers blown into my face by a well-timed gust of wind. 

“Well, I did say I needed a haircut,” I remarked with a laugh. 

She glanced over with brows knit upwards, her bright eyes shifting from my face to the strands grasped between my fingers. 

“No,” she cooed, reaching over. “I like your long hair.” 

“I won’t cut it all,” I reassured. “I just have to trim it and get rid of the hair I nearly burned off.” Again, I offered a snicker, amused by my own tendency to hurt myself in mundane tasks. 

She made a face and focused on the road. “Don’t cut it all off,” she said, her voice low and tender.

“I like it long,” I replied. “I’m not going to cut it all off.” 

“I mean–you do what you want with your own hair–it’s your body and everything,” she added quickly. “It’s your hair.” 

A fond smile crossed my lips. She fretted about influencing my choices, about controlling me. Perhaps she did not realize I found affection in the way she loved my hair, the way she grew attached to my appearance. Perhaps she did not realize I found no harm in her words. 

“I like it long,” I reiterated, hoping my voice sounded as gentle as I intended it to be. “So you don’t have to worry, love. I’ll only be trimming it.” 

“Okay,” she said. She glanced at me with a soft smile on her beautiful lips. “Good.”