“I mean, yeah, if you cut Ross’s hair an inch, you’d definitely notice. Cut my hair an inch…meh, not so much.”

This is my attempt to integrate myself into the casual before-class conversation.

“How long is your hair, anyway?” Andrew asks.

“I dunno; let’s see,” I reply, reaching up to take it out of its cinnamon-swirl bun. It falls down my back, reluctantly untwisting. I shake it out to its full length; it just reaches the waistband of my jeans.

“Can I measure it?”

“Sure.”

“Señora, do you have a ruler?”

“Two feet eight inches,” I declare, finishing my little side story as I sit on the couch in my aunt’s living room, surrounded by my extended family.

“Are you planning on growing it out more?” someone asks.

“Yeah, probably.”

“You could be like Rapunzel,” someone else says.

A tiny creek gurgles quietly, just visible through the reeds on the edge of the forest clearing. All sorts of wild grasses and clovers and flowers spring up around the area, and the air hums softly with insect song. An ancient, slightly crumbling stone structure rears up in the center, towering over the scene—though man-made, it’s almost a part of nature itself, due to the scores of vines choking it.

The girl who lives in the tower is no princess. No golden locks or frilly dresses. Her hair is brown, and she wears a hoodie and jeans. (Why dress up if no one ever sees you anyway?) She’s not exactly trapped, either. There’s a spiral staircase. But why leave? The circular walls are covered with shelves that are positively overflowing with books. There’s a section for flute repertoire—her flute itself, and the music stand, are there in the tower room, too, opposite her bed. She could spend her whole life like this, away from people to offend, away from responsibility, away from world problems and conflict. Away from awkwardness. Away from pain and suffering. Independent.

She looks out the window, at the beautiful meadow inside the beautiful forest, with the beautiful castle off in the distance.

She can just make out the deer blind concealed in the trees, but the only reason she can see it is because she knows it’s there.

Her father’s serious about his rule. There’s even a sign posted on the tower, at the bottom of the staircase: “NO BOYS.”

Even the deer blind doesn’t bother her so much. But amidst such a tranquil scene of nature, a real monstrosity draws her eyes: an anti-aircraft gun.

“Wait, hold on a minute! An anti-aircraft gun?!”

“Yeah,” my brother reiterates. He’s staring off into the distance, spreading his arms wide to indicate the scene he pictures in his mind. “A whole row of them… And maybe AT-AT Walkers, too!”

I groan and cover my eyes with exasperation. “No AT-AT’s.”

“AT-ST’s?”

“No.”

“A speeder?”

“No. No weapons for you unless I want to have my tower blown apart.”

The rest of the car ride home is fairly silent.

Maybe being secluded from people is a little overboard, I think to myself. Running from responsibility is unrealistic. And who really wants to live their life totally alone? We might want safety, but…maybe the cost for absolute safety is too great.

Maybe the cost of maintaining 70 feet of hair is, too.