"It's so long, why don't you get it cut?"
"I like it long."
It was always the first thing people noticed about me: my long hair. I hadn't cut it since my mother died. So long and flimsy at the end, it trailed down my back like a long dark waterfall. And i was fine with that.
But people were always commenting. It wasntt right for a dude to have long hair. They'd joke about how much effort I'd put into styling it every morning, and if I'd look better with it curled or straightened. I didn't want to change anything. THe last time something in my life changed, my family broke and it only lead to more unhappiness. So i kept it the way it was, and tried not to think about it.
It was nice to have, my dark shield hid me from the world. It gave me something to hide behind, and it helped me to block out the drone of voices.
I didn't like them. I didn't like their short hair, so open and bold. I didn't like how loud their voices were. I found my refuge in the solitude of the grasses.
I liked how deep the blue the sky was, and how contrary the shadowy trees lined my vision, laying in the deep grasses of Temmiscal Park. There was a comfort in laying, enveloped in green. The wind pulling gentle whisps around me, a soothing touch as if the world itself knew I was going to make it through.
And so I hid. Hours dripping through the trees, the temperature rising and falling. I felt safe there. Protected by obscutity, there was a power in not being seen. This meadow had been out of sight, and it had never changed. I liked it, because no one could take a mower to the grasses if they didn't know it was there. Sometimes I talked to them about it. I whispered into the dirt, and told them there was a beauty long and fragile things, and they must come to accept it. They shivered in the wind, bowing to the unknown.