I Am The Son And The Hair

"Haru, why are you looking at me like that?" Maedhros put a hand on his hip, annoyed by the way Finwë had been staring at him throughout the feast. Now that the feast was over and the guests gone, it was time to have a word. "Please don't tell me it's my garb." While Maedhros hated dressing up as much at least as his father did if not more, he hated being criticized and lectured even more than that, so he went to great effort to make sure his royal court outfits were impeccable.

"It's not your garb, no," Finwë said. "It's your hair."

Maedhros narrowed his eyes. Of all the responses he'd been expecting from Finwë - needing to eat more politely, needing to improve his dancing skill, anything - he wasn't expecting that.

"What's wrong with my hair?" Maedhros spat. As much as he hated dressing up, he was vain of his hair - most Noldor were. Red was a very rare shade among his people, and he was proud of being different, and Fëanor was proud of him too, calling him a living work of art.

"It's not long enough." Finwë gestured to his own hair, then to Maedhros's. Their hair was the same length, hanging down to the middle of the back.

"And yet yours is?"

"Mine is a common shade. Yours is not. Such glorious copper hair as yours should be much longer. Down to your ankles, perhaps."

Maedhros snorted loudly. "That sounds like a good way for my hair to be grabbed and used against me as a weapon." He and Fingon frequently sparred and often, Fingon fought dirty, pulling Maedhros's hair. Of course, Maedhros liked it when it was Fingon. But from an actual enemy... "It also sounds like a good way for my hair to get full of dirt, or bugs."

"You are the firstborn son of my firstborn son. I expect more from you. See to it that by the next ball, you have more hair." With that, Finwë turned and walked away, leaving Maedhros seething. He very much did not like to be told what to do as if he were still a child - indeed, it was as if Finwë was the child here, insistent on getting his own way with something so impractical if not dangerous and unsanitary.

Then Maedhros thought of Fëanor's ridiculous winged crown, and the one that replaced it, even more over the top with the blindingly bright jewels. And suddenly, inspiration struck.

"What is the meaning of this, Nelyafinwë?"

Maedhros smiled. "Life. The universe. And everything."

Finwë's nostrils flared. "YOU KNOW WHAT I WAS ASKING ABOUT."

Maedhros was wearing a long, silky pale blue tunic with red lace roses at the hems of his collar, sleeves, and the bottom, a headdress of copper, beads and feathers, dangling earrings, and an elaborate necklace of golden filigree and beaded jewels.

Hanging down from the chest of his tunic, all the way to his ankles, were long tufts of wavy red hair that matched his own; Maedhros and his brothers had been asking to collect shearings from farm animals for the last few weeks and then spent time dyeing it to match his hair, and weaving it together and sewing the long pieces of hair onto his tunic.

It looked utterly ludicrous, and that was indeed the point.

Maedhros shrugged and smirked. "You told me to have more hair by the next ball. This is more hair, is it not?"

Finwë stalked off, making high-pitched squeals and deep grunts in agitation. Maedhros and Maglor bumped their fists together and then Fëanor strode over, making Maedhros's eyes water and squint at the glow of the Silmarils. "I'm so proud of you," Fëanor said, putting an arm around him. "This is one of my proudest moments as a father."

Maedhros couldn't resist. "Hi So Proud Of You This Is One Of My Proudest Moments As A Father."

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