Jumping into stories, I would never be ridiculed for the length of my hair, nor would I ever be accused of being a witch. More importantly, I would never be recognized. I was safe there in my tower with my books. I had no reason to ever leave, although I was certainly safe to do so for a period of time about every fifty years, as one generation gave way to the next and memories were sure to be dim. It was rare that I made an exception.
“I hate mornings,” I grumbled out loud as I stretched my arms above my head and yawned. I didn't actually hate mornings. I just really disliked waking up. If I could live forever without sleeping, I'd be perfectly content. I'd certainly get a lot more done, that's for sure. Then again, what did I need to do? My morning routine had never been a quick one. What reason did I have to rush?
I shuffled to the wardrobe and pulled back the hand-carved double doors made by an ancestor—perhaps constructed in this very room. It was a priceless antique, but to me, just a place to store my clothes, a remnant from my childhood. I lifted the sleeves of two dresses. Did I feel pretty today? I eyed a delicate floral print. Or functional? I felt the fabric of a denim skirt. Or maybe some gardening? I considered the folded pile of work clothes. It was too early to know what the afternoon would hold, but I certainly didn't feel pretty. I tugged the denim skirt from its hanger and tossed it over my shoulder, then grabbed a plaid shirt from a folded stack on the shelf.
I padded over to the door and slid the lock into place, then moved to the old ceramic washbasin that had once stood in my bedroom at home. I draped my clothes on the rack beside it and leaned my face close to the warm water, allowing the steam to bathe my face. Gretta’s morning ritual of leaving my washbasin filled with clean water and my hairbrush clean of loose strands was so perfectly timed I never had to wait. I’d come to appreciate, even depend on, her help with my morning needs, though I didn’t like the thought of her creeping around my space while I still slept.
I supposed I could always leave my chambers and wash in one of the new modern washrooms we’d had installed. Running water and electricity made things much easier than ceramic pots. Why didn’t I do that? Why not acclimate to the times and their conveniences?
I shrugged. “This is me,” I whispered to myself. Every step I moved away from the real me, the closer I’d get to the future. Eventually, there would be nothing left of what once was. I couldn’t allow that to happen.
No. Gretta could bring my morning water to my room. It was the least she could do. Besides, it seemed to keep her satisfied for some reason.
I sank my frigid hands into the warm water. For so long we’d avoided new-fangled things, like plumbing and appliances, but it didn’t take long to see that certain modern conveniences sure would be helpful to life in the castle. At first, Gretta would only risk bringing in new things that she could carry herself, rather than risk exposure to the outside.
It was never really a hardship to us. It was all we knew. But eventually…violent memories of my last illness filled my head with visions of vomiting and fever. I shuddered away the thought. We'd decided to take a chance with some hired help—installers they called them.
I dipped my washcloth in the warm water, then squirted some lavender bath gel in the center and rubbed it over my face and shoulders, inhaling the delicate floral aroma. Bath products. There was another modern convenience I'd never want to do without. Thanks to online shopping and UPS, I should never have to.
I lowered the washcloth into the basin and swished it around until the soap was mostly gone. I gave another quick pass over my freshly washed skin to remove the last of the residue. I dropped the rag beside the basin and looked to the table beside it for the tools of my hardest labor.
I gripped the wooden handle of my sable hairbrush and let out a deep sigh as I pulled some loose strands that Gretta had missed when she cleaned out the bristles for me. No matter how much I brushed, my hair would need more. I could brush twenty-four hours a day if I wanted to, but I refused to let it take over my life. It wasn’t my fault that it hadn't stopped growing since that dreadful night. My golden hair had become as burdensome as a yoke on a pack mule.
My hair was as long as one of the ropes coiled in the barn. I knew without a doubt I could throw it over a tree branch and swing from it. I knew this, because I'd tried it. After I reached the realization that I really had nothing to lose, I tested my limits on a lot of things. In many ways, there were no limits.
Cutting it sure didn't work, believe me. I'd tried everything. Not even the strongest axe or the hottest fire would splinter or even dent my cursed locks. I knew, because I'd tried even lighting my hair on fire just to see if it would burn. Nothing worked. The only time my head released even a strand was into a sable hairbrush—like magic.