Page 141 of Forcing Fate

“I don’t need it to be pretty.”

“No, but you need it to be functional.”

I glared at his back and put my hands on my hips. “I don’t want a shaved head.”

He chuckled as he stood and secured the cloth covering his silver eye in place. “You wouldn’t look nearly as pretty.” He strode past, patting my head, and I shirked away from his touch.

I mentally threw curses at his back as I watched him leave. Sighing, I picked up my pace to follow him back to the barracks.

I sat on a stool just outside General Rafe’s room, watching him warily. He held a pair of shears and a comb.

“Is that what you use for your hair, sir?” I asked quietly, poking fun at him, but also trying to stifle my nerves.

He smirked and stood behind me. Finding the pins in my braid, he let it down. It slapped against my back, falling below the seat of the stool. His large, calloused hand came into view, offering me the shears.

“Make the first cut,” he ordered.

I twisted in my seat, pleading with him to take it back, to not make me do this. Yes, it was logical. Long hair had its disadvantages… yet it was mine. Seeing no change in his resolve, I snatched the thrice-cursed shears and faced away from him. Holding my braid at the nape of my neck, I braced the shears, ready to cut.

One cut, then I was done. That was it.

I took a deep breath and closed the shears, expecting the braid to fall. They barely closed around the length and caught. Closing my eyes, I realized it was too thick to be lopped off in one go. I sat there in silence, working the shears—open and closed, open and closed, sawing through my white hair.

It took for what felt like an eternity, and when the braid finally fell free, tears streaked my face. I had nothing else to show for my femininity. There was no going back. Sure, one day it would grow long, but until then, I would look like an outcast. If I ever walked the school grounds again, I’d stand out more than ever.

My hair sprang free, the loose ends tickling my neck and chin. I held the shears out for General Rafe and pulled the thick braid into my lap. Perhaps I would keep it—a memento of who I once was.

He combed and made rough cuts, white hair falling to the ground. More tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked them away. I was stronger than this. It was just hair, it would grow back. I was doing the smart thing.

“Where did you learn to cut hair?” I asked, clearing my throat.

“Every soldier learns on the front. It’s cleaner, and keeps your vision clear,” he rumbled behind me.

I smiled at the thought of the General behind me. If I had ever seen him cutting someone’s hair, I would have laughed. He would probably shave it all off like he did with his hair. Yet, with mine, he took his time.

My eyes fluttered closed, blocking out the hair drifting around us like snow on the Summer Solstice. I rubbed my fingers against my braid, noting the smoothness, the intricacy of my design. I prided myself on my braids—practiced every day, even after I joined the army. My heart twisted as I bit my cheek. It was done now.

General Rafe stilled, then gave a satisfied grunt. I opened my eyes and watched as he walked into his room, then returned with a small bronze mirror. He offered it to me and I took it, braving my reflection.

The person who stared back looked nothing like me. I ran my fingers through the short mop on the top of my head. It hung loose and choppy. Some length laid over my forehead, giving the illusion of bangs. My fingers trailed up the nape of my neck over the tapered hair. I frowned, finding a small lock he hadn’t cut. It was barely as long as my middle finger, but it was there. I glanced up at him in question.

“Braid it.” He shrugged, leaning against the door.

I looked back at my reflection. Sun-kissed freckles speckled a young girl’s small face. Her short hair made her seem even younger than her naïve eyes did.

I would never be a fierce warrior.

Sighing, I handed the mirror back and stood, shaking out my clothes. I pulled my shirt free from my trousers and aired it out, trying to be rid of all the hair flying about. He set the mirror off to the side, and leaned against the door frame again, studying me.

“Did you do that to prep me for your team?” I asked, not bothering to hide the sharp edge in my voice.

He scoffed. “You’ll join regardless of your hair. I simply wouldn’t have given you a choice then.”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice.” I straightened and scowled. “Besides, what makes you so sure I’ll join?”

“You will. And you did. You played the game.”

“I didn’t know you were going to tell me to join your little club,” I growled.

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