The old woman hadn't suspected a thing, being as blind as she was - she could only see the general shape of things and light when it was bright enough. Her adopted child - though, she supposed she should say grandchild since the girl had long since taken to calling her 'Grams' - had come home in time for supper after what was, no doubt, a long day of running around with the local boy children and getting up to some sort of trivial mischief, as children of about four years of age were prone to do.
The old woman had long since given up on persuading Finchley to do otherwise. Two years of subtle and not so subtle insistence did nothing to curb the child's will to be free to make her own choices where she could. Not that the old woman minded so much; Finchley seemed to thrive best when allowed to speak her mind and be herself. Who was she to try and dampen the child's spirit and her so obviously pure and kind heart?
"Come here, child," she said as she placed that evening's supper on the table - a hearty stew made with every kind of good vegetable save for cauliflower. Of course, she gave Finchley an extra helping in her bowl - that girl could put food away like no other person she had encountered in her long lifetime!
She heard the girl's excited steps over the floor of their small home as she made a predictable beeline for the table. Mealtimes were always so especially anticipated! Finchley plopped herself down upon the chair and mumbled out an enthusiastic and hasty thanks to her adopted grandmother before digging into her supper with her usual gusto. The old woman sighed and reached for the comb she had set down nearby so as to easily find it.
Seeing as Finchley only ever seemed to stay still when eating or studying the lessons given to her, it was always the perfect opportunity to brush out her dark locks of hair and remove tangles and anything she had managed to get stuck in it during her day's play - twigs, leaves, bits of hay, flowers, berries even...
The old woman sighed and reached out to run her practiced fingers through the child's hair... only to find there was significantly less of it than there was before.
"Finchley!"
"Hmm?"
"What did you do to your hair?"
"Do you like it? Now you don't have to spend so much time fixin' it!"
"... What?"
The child paused in her eating and turned about on her chair to take the old woman's hands in her own, big smile on her young face, though the old woman couldn't see it.
"It kept gettin' in my mouth when runnin'. An' I got a big knot in it. So I asked Fletcher to take his ma's sewin' sharps to it."
"You mean scissors, Finchley."
"Mhmm! Now you don't have to fuss! I like it. Do you like it?"
'Grams' just stood there, one hand still holding the comb as the child still gripped at her fingers with obvious excitement. She was at a complete loss for words. Had she somehow made the child feel as if brushing out her hair every evening was a chore? Will she not look odd running around with her hair cut like a boy's? Did she even cut it in such a way that it doesn't look lopsided? Maybe she should take Finchley to the neighbor's in the morning to check...
Eventually the old woman sighed, long and deep and released the girl's hands to run her fingers through the now decidedly short locks of dark hair. "Do you like it, child?"
"Aye! I like it a lot. It feels like... me!"
"... Very well. But, tomorrow we are going to make sure it's cut evenly. I very much doubt that young Mister Fletcher is an adept at hair cutting like his mother. I can feel that your ends don't match on either side."
Finchley's girlish giggles echoed throughout the space, as if that was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. And, perhaps to a four year old girl, having unevenly cut hair was more of a source of humor than it was a concern. Either way, the girl was happy and turned right back around to continue eating her supper.
The old woman shook her head in an exasperated manner, though a small smile appeared on her face as she turned to put away the comb and retrieve her own helping of stew. Well, she could never say that life was boring in the few years she had had the child under her roof thus far.
Oh, the trials and joys of raising Finchley...
