text: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel! Let down your hair!” Nothing but the chirping of crickets resounded. Somewhere, in a distant desert, a tumbleweed rolled by. The traveller craned his neck and squinted, but could see no face in the tiny window at the top of the tower. “RAPUNZEL!” he bellowed. This wasn’t like her. On every previous occasion the traveller had come by, Rapunzel would appear readily at the window and let down a golden, rope-thick plait of her hair for him to climb up. They would spend a leisurely evening together; she would listen to his tales of bawdy escapades and laugh delightedly at all his jokes, even the ones he was pretty sure she would find offensive. They would enjoy a candlelit dinner that she prepared--she was an excellent cook--and he would slip away in the early hours of the morning, leaving her to fondly reminisce on the night they had spent as she cleaned away the leftovers. He had been looking forward to such an evening all day; in fact, he had been looking forward to it for at least three of the six months that had passed since he last visited her. Well, maybe one of the six months, two at most. Truth be told, he had almost forgotten about her, until his rumbling stomach put him in mind of her delicious mushroom stew and he realised her tower was close enough that it would only be a slight inconvenience to travel there. Resigned, he turned to leave and seek his evening’s pleasure elsewhere--though he doubted he would be able to find anyone who could cook as well as Rapunzel could--when he heard her voice at last. “Frederick? Is that you?” Frederick whirled back around. “Rapunzel! Baby!” He held out his arms. “You took your time. Were you cooking me something extra-special?” He heard an inelegant snort come from that general direction, and wondered what it was. “Why would I be cooking you dinner?” said Rapunzel. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” A pause. “I didn’t know if you were coming back at all. It’s been six months.” “You counted?” A beaming smile spread across Frederick’s face. “Aw, you must have really missed me, babe.” Another snort. “Do you, er... have a horse up there with you?” “No.” Rapunzel sounded confused. “Why?” “Er, no reason.” Frederick figured he must be hearing things. “Now, enough of this chit-chat.” He struck a heroic pose and deepened his voice: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” “Mm, slight problem.” Frederick could hear the hint of a smile when she spoke, and froze, a cold horror suddenly enveloping him. “You don’t have another *man* up there with you, do you?” “I have neither horse nor man with me in my tower,” Rapunzel replied with a laugh. The sound of her laugh, to Frederick, was as beautiful as the ringing of bells or the warbling of songbirds, but in this moment it felt like a dagger through his heart. “I don’t believe you,” he growled, hastily reaching into his rucksack for the small spyglass he had purchased up from a travelling inventor for the sole purpose of looking at women from afar. He peered through it at the window and gasped. “You’re lying! There *is* a man up there!” “I assure you, Frederick, there is not.” It was the strange man in the window who spoke, albeit with Rapunzel’s voice. It took a moment for Frederick to piece it together. “Your... your hair! It’s gone!” Something was not right, he was sure of it, but he had to play it cool; he had already embarrassed himself once in front of her today. He forced a grin. “Did you burn it off while you were cooking my dinner, babe?” “As I said, why would I be cooking your dinner if I didn’t think you were coming?” Rapunzel replied. “I just... felt like a change. A fresh start. You understand, don’t you?” “Of course I understand,” said Frederick knowingly, despite not understanding at all. Every time he thought he understood women, they’d come out with something like this. “We can absolutely make a fresh start together, if you want. Maybe you can start by letting your hair d--oh.” He broke off, and glanced around helplessly. “Er, how will I get up there?” There was a thoughtful pause, as if Rapunzel was deciding whether she wanted Frederick to come up at all--no, of *course* she wanted him to come up, he told himself. He was being ridiculous. Finally, she spoke: “You can use the rope ladder.” A frayed, gnarled ladder of greyish-brown rope dropped down in front on Frederick. He reached up and grabbed hold of it. “It’s so rough and scratchy,” he complained, frowning. “I’ll end up getting rope burn all over my hands, and that will be really painful. I much preferred climbing up a braid your soft, silky hair.” “Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Rapunzel, pulling the rope ladder back up. “I’ll start growing my hair now, and when it’s ready in another six months, you can climb it again. That way, it will be a pain-free experience for both of us.” Frederick bowed. “Thank you, Rapunzel.” “And I’ll be sure to have a special dinner ready for you this time,”she added. She almost sounded almost sarcastic, Frederick thought later that evening as he tucked into an undercooked chicken pie at a disreputable tavern in a nearby village. But he knew better--women were never sarcastic. They didn’t know how. He chased away the silly thought with a greedy gulp of ale, and mused about what sort of bawdy escapades he might get up to in between now and the dinner she was going to cook him in six months time. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ Rapunzel peered at her neat pixie-cut in the mirror, tucking a few wayward strands behind her ear. It would take some getting used to. It had been years since the witch, the one who had held her captive all those years ago, had died. She could leave at any time. Yet still she remained in her secluded tower, afraid of the outside world, interacting with nobody but the merchant who delivered her groceries (in a basket attached to her hair, of course) and the occasional hungry traveller. But something had snapped in her about a week ago. “What am I *doing?”* she had asked herself as she brushed her long, golden hair, frizzy and uncomfortably sweat-damp on that warm evening. “Why am I sitting around here, wasting my life waiting for that man? He’s not even that attractive.” She had taken the scissors to her hair that evening. The result was messy and uneven, but she felt so *free!* Why on earth had she let him climb up her hair? What was going through her *head?* Not much, now she thought about it--perhaps her brain was feeling suffocated by all that hair. Rapunzel turned from the mirror and cast one last sweeping glance around her room, then slowly, shakily made her way down the rope ladder--the one the witch had left for her ‘in case of a fire’ but warned her never to use, lest she ruin her soft, smooth hands, and which Rapunzel had never once dared to touch, not even in her rebellious teenage years. She winced as the scratchy rope chafed and burned her hands as she made her way down, but she didn’t care. Frederick would have to find someone else to cook his mushroom stew in six months time.