Sometimes she thinks of cutting it short. Sparring is when she usually thinks of it, though to call it thinking is to credit it too much -- just a wordless wish for it to be gone. But some days it just won't stay pulled back, and it flies in her face and clings to her sweat, gets in her eyes.
Ronon is the only one who takes advantage of it.
He's sprawled on her bed in a towel, watching her as she draws the comb through her hair, water dripping from the ends and falling onto her shoulders. She meets his eyes in the mirror and he shrugs.
"I don't know," he says. "Cut it if you want to. You'd look good with short hair. It'd show off your neck."
"You might win less often," she answers, and he laughs, and her heart rises.
He laughs more now than he used to, more when they're alone, more with the others.
"Yeah," he says, and grins. "That's okay."
She smooths her hands over her hair, pressing, and pulls it back behind her neck. She turns her head, imagining it gone.
Her mother's hair had been the color of dark honey, the color of the sky at the horizon on certain summer evenings when the air was warm and the breeze smelled of linnese flowers and rich earth. It flowed over her shoulders and down her back in a heavy curtain, and when she would lean over Teyla's bed at night to kiss her it would fall around them both, scented and warm.
"It's a silly vanity," she says.
The linens rustle when he sits up, and he gets to his feet and comes to stand behind her. He strokes his fingers through the wet strands and down her neck.
"Why do you not cut yours?" she asks, looking up at him. She's heard him complain of how heavy it can be, especially when it's wet, and though it's too heavy to cling, she's never the less seen him blinded by it for split seconds, long enough for her to gain an advantage. Long enough.
He doesn't answer at first, then says, "It's how my grandfather and my father wore theirs."
She takes his hand in hers and kisses his palm. "I think I shall leave it long for now."
Later, after supper, after drinking with John and Rodney until the moons were high, Ronon pulls her with him onto her bed, laughing. She laughs with him and bends to kiss him, and her hair falls around them in a golden curtain, the color of the sky at the horizon on certain summer evenings when the air is warm and the breeze smells of the stars and the ocean.
Summary: Sometimes she thinks of cutting it short. Sparring is when she usually thinks of it, though to call it thinking is to credit it too much -- just a wordless wish for it to be gone. But some days it just won't stay pulled back, and it flies in her face and clings to her sweat, gets in her eyes.
Written for lunabee34's Women and their hair comment ficathon.