Word Count: 770

Upset as she was by the change in her hair, Paris let Chris pick the new style.

She told herself it didn't matter, that hair was hair and it would soon grow back. She'd been through worse than this a month ago. The bruising had faded over the days and weeks that followed her release, and the swelling had gone down, but the scars remained. Her arm was still in its cast, and her shoulder bore a familiar mark. And those were just the physical remnants. The emotional and psychological wounds were worse.

Her nightmares were full of barred cages and locked doors. She could no longer sleep in the darkness, nor could she handle being alone for extended periods of time. Nothing disturbed her quite so much as the silence, when she imagined she could still hear the endless screams of her fellow captives.

These were understandable reactions with an obvious cause.

Considering what could have easily become of her, the loss of her long, once healthy and well looked after hair should seem insignificant.

But it wasn't. Her hair had become part of her identity; its growth and her loving maintenance of it had become a source of validation. It was how she wanted the world to see her—Paris Gallo, with the long, thick, lustrous blonde hair. It was as much a part of her as the color of her eyes or the lines that crossed her palms. Her hair was her one last source of vanity.

How was she supposed to feel good about herself now that it had become so dull and limp and damaged?

She sat in the salon chair with her back facing the mirror, with Chris in the chair on her right and her stylist snipping away at the wet strands with a pair of scissors that, to Paris, seemed to gleam sinisterly. Paris flinched at the first snip, trembled at the second, and cried quietly as the second led to the third, and the fourth, and the fifth. Miserably, she watched piles of once cherished hair collect on the ground in streaks and coils of water-darkened blonde.

Each slide of the scissor blades against one another earned a cringe; each inch removed earned another tear. Chris reached for her hand and held it awkwardly. His were still lightly bandaged, and the distance between their respective chairs meant they had to strain a bit to clasp their hands together. Out of the corner of her eye Paris could see the pile of hair around Chris's hair grow by the minute. Though his loss was less substantial, and though his reaction remained devoid of tears, Paris knew Chris was not without understanding.

Chris's cut was finished first but Paris refused to look until hers was done. Finally, her stylist put the scissors down and went at Paris's hair with a brush and the blowdryer, and later a curling iron. The feel of the shortened strands grazing the sides of her face caused Paris to close her eyes.

She did not open them until it was done, and her stylist turned her chair to face the mirror.

There, an unrecognizable young woman stared back at her—and she was a young woman, not merely a girl as she used to think of herself, but a woman of history and experience. Her hair was back to its natural color and cut just above her shoulders, curled softly, with feathered bangs swept off to the side. There was a maturity and a sophistication about her that hadn't quite been there before.

Though Paris could appreciate the look, it was too big of a change, and one that came about more by necessity than want, for her to be immediately satisfied. She turned from the mirror with a quiet thanks for her stylist, and hopped from the chair as soon as the black drape was removed from her shoulders.

Then she looked at Chris, and she saw an almost unrecognizable young man holding a bandaged hand out to her. Gone was the young, shaggy style he'd had since they first met, replaced now by something that would have looked less out-of-character on his father or older brother. It made his eyes stand out more, and it brought out the features of his face—the long, straight nose; the high cheekbones; the soft line of his jaw.

With one last gaze into the mirror Pais thought they finally looked the part they'd been playing for almost two years—that of a young married couple setting out on their own.

With this, she hoped they could put the last dark month behind them.