Medowlyn/Story
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Before the Ball, Every Strand in Place
It was the day before Medowlyn's coming-of-age ceremony.
When the matrons pushed open the door, they found her diligently making the final preparations for the Coiffure Ball.
As the tradition demanded, her hair was styled to perfection. Not a strand out of place. Not one too many, nor one too few.
The Coiffure Ball was the traditional coming-of-age ceremony of her kind, known for its demanding standards of perfection. From a young age, children were taught to care for their hair with the utmost attention. The strict grooming rituals demanded they sit tall, move gracefully, and maintain perfect composure at all times.
The strands used to craft commemorative hairwork were, as the old song went, smooth as silk and near divine in quality:
No trace of impurity,
No sign of breakage,
No hint of frizz,
No weight of sorrow.
As smooth as satin,
As gentle as song.
Thus it grows.
Thus it is flawless.
And Medowlyn was the finest among them — or rather, she was about to become the finest of all.
The hair matrons helped Medowlyn curl the last of her strands.
Watching her sit so still and focused, one of the matrons closed the door softly behind her and sighed.
The poor child hadn't slept in two whole days, all for the sake of the ball.
Medowlyn didn't even notice the matrons' departure. She was too caught up in her frustration — the moment the hair passed through the bead string, it lost its shape, refusing to form the rounded, flower-shaped curve she needed.
She didn't notice, either, when a soft gurgling sound began to fill the room, as if something was quietly rolling somewhere nearby.
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Dough ×100./