He never cared about it much, though everyone else seems to. It is disobedient, unruly; for most of his life, he gave it its head, letting it run free. Its rebellion was mainly for show, as was his; it coiled up into itself, in the end, not choosing to do more than rustle.
No one can fault it, though some try. Even the attackers tip their hats to the dark brown tangle as it perches without a care in the world, come what may. If a time comes when it might drag him down, he lets it go—quietly, without a fuss, the ringlets floating silently to the ground—and it leaves no shadow behind. It will come back, it will always come back. It bears no ill-will, and cares little for the whims of the powerful.
There is nothing strange about it, after all. It does not serve, and it does not rule. It simply is. Perhaps this is why the world finds it so mysterious, enticing even. The one who came before him had a head of silver wires; beaten into shape, every line calculated to be bland, inoffensive. It had been painful in its neatness. He is different. Nowhere else does this show so much.
It does little now, impressed by the soberness of those around them. Still, it is none the paler for what it sees. Instead, it lets its darkness curl around him, shielding him from the blinding lights of the pinnacle where he stands. It is his own darkness, a friendly shade hanging over his head.
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