Headcanon Sirius’ hair was a huge part of his self esteem, and he grew it out in silent rebellion of his parents’ wishes for him. Every time he went home from Hogwarts, he would hear ‘why don’t you cut off that mop?’ or ‘you would look so much nicer if your hair was like Regulus’.’ He would put a charm on it to prevent it from being cut by his parents without his will.
Once in sixth year, just as tensions were at their highest with his parents, the Marauders pulled a prank on him that resulted in Sirius’ hair being chopped short. Short enough to look exactly like Regulus. He locked himself in the dormitory bathroom, much to the amusement of James and Peter, who laughed at him for being ‘such a girl, Padfoot, it’s just hair.’ Only Remus with his werewolf hearing could pick up the soft sobbing from beyond the door.
Sometimes it feels good to start all
Over again! #BC ✂️✂️✂️✂️
I big chopped a few days ago and it feels amazing. The first couple of times, I’ll admit, is scary and emotional. After few times you realize that it’s only hair.. and that it’ll grow back!!
It’s better to have healthy hair than hold on to the damaged stands.
Go for it and have some fun with your hair!!
Susan Pevensie was short skirts, unevenly chopped hair, scarlet lipstick like a blood smear.
She was sharp eyeliner, fights in the halls, and lipstick stains on the inside of a collar.
She was quiet looks of ice, headphones in her ears blaring, a wink from across the room.
Wild child, some said.
Ice queen. (Susan heard that one once. Memories, like a dream within a dream)
They saw her the way they wanted. She didn’t care.
They threw around me he words ice cold stare not knowing that her soul was ice now, that she numbed it to ease a pain deeper than anything they could understand.
(She was still haunted, at night. She was haunted by the images of rows of bodies covered in sheets. Of the police asking her to make sure that this was her mother. Her brothers.)
(She didn’t cry until Lucy. She gripped her hand and it was limp and she cried over the body that was not her sister because Lucy was so full of life and this couldn’t be her.)
She didn’t care what they thought of her.
Susan Pevensie was crying herself to sleep every night.
She was spitting at God then sneaking into church at midnight to fall to her knees in front of the altar, begging to be forgiven so she could join them.
She was kissing boys and girls in equal fervor knowing they were exactly the type Peter would have hated and trying to ignore the feeling of his eyes watching her, disapproving.
She was looking at her bleeding knuckles and feeling pain that had nothing to do with them because she remembered a time when Edmund’s hands bled and she’d had to patch them up.
She was crying, wailing, screaming, rocking back and forth on her knees in front of the dirt that held the pale remnants of what was once her family, smearing it on her face because this was all she had left.
Susan Pevensie was the beautiful tragedy, because she survived.
She survived and they were gone, taking her soul with them.