Lelyafas

‘Beautiful hair’, his mother had called him, and rightly so. Though it had a will of its own, when brushed and combed out it was a thick wavy mane that any would be proud of. 

“It is like dry twigs,” he had said to me when I first set comb to it. Nay, it took but a little patience to restore its vitality. 

I was honored he permitted me to tend to him. Hair is special to us. It is not for just anyone to take hold of or braid. His mother had combed his hair when he was a child, of course. But no other close relative had he to entrust. I had heard what happened when Parnard had sought to tidy him, after he returned so broken from the Hithaeglir and was on the search for Lord Anglachem. Well-meaning though our friend was, his action in attempting to cut out some of the knots was not totally appreciated. 

But since he had allowed my touch that night of the Feast, when he sat shivering with cold by the fire in my house, Estarfin had come to me more often to attend to his hair. It was soothing for him, I hoped. It was certainly soothing for me. 

I do confess, however, sometimes when I finished, I had to restrain the urge to turn it into a wild mess again. That would not have been seemly. 

(With thanks to Estarfin for the picture.)