Becoming Rapunzel

Pt One: Cutting of the Hair

I have no memory of this time, nor do I want to. I know for a fact Gothel did not perform the traditional rite of a first haircut. My hair was never cut until the fateful day, the last day in the tower.

            With one year of life to my being, I had begun to walk. When I was old enough to understand, Gothel told me that I had toddled dangerously around the tower, poking in and out of rooms I had no reason to be in. Gothel kept me away from the stairs, for she was nothing if not over protective.

            She took great care not to cut my hair, convinced I had a magic inside me that should not be altered. When I cried, she comforted me, drawing me to herself. I never remember any lullabies she crooned. I believe that she held me because she knew that without human touch and warmth, children grow up inhibited and unresponsive. She later told me that would not have done to have a stunted and sullen assistant in later years, so she kept me in excellent health and condition, seeing to my every need. As a babe, it was something I never noticed but still impacted me later in life.

            The tower was everything I had ever known. Even at a year old, I sensed my belonging there. I had no recollection of my mother’s voice, nor of my father’s. I had been taken away the night I was born, and brought to live with Gothel.

            “You are a special child,” she repeated throughout my childhood. It is one of my most ingrained memories. She had begun the tale years before I could even understand her words. “You, born to a woman craving the roots of a rare herb, in the time betwixt times. Twilight of the last day of the year, when the star from the north appeared for the first time in thirty-three years. A person could not even imagine such auspicious signs. A child like you is born once in a lifetime, mayhap rarer. You have magic within you, magic I will use for the rest of your days.”

            Magic. There are many types of magic in the world, as many as there are people. Some magic hides in your bones and makes you who you are. Some dwell deep within the bedrock of the earth and holds us to it, magic that can be felt, magic that can be learned and twisted to the will of person. Gothel studied magic obsessively. She studied herbs. She studied me. When I was but one year old, my hair reached my shoulders, she told me. It glimmered like the fairest of gold threads, and she treasured it. She had great plans for my magic.

            Alamanni children’s first rite of passage is their hair cutting. According to tradition, family gathers on the day of the child’s birth, and the mother takes a knife and trims the child’s hair. Royal or other noble families often bring a barber in to do it, as they have the money for that sort of luxury. With the cut hair, other children in the family gather it up and scatter it outside, in hopes that birds will use it to build their nests. This act demonstrates the cohesive nature of the family, welcoming the new child into its place as a part of the family. It was no longer an infant, but a person with a place in the household.

            To be fair, Gothel wasn’t Alamanni. She had immigrated to this part of the world many, many years ago, in search of rare herbs. Perchance she didn’t understand the importance of customs and traditions like the Alamanni do. Perchance she believed cutting my hair would hurt the magic inside me. Perchance she didn’t realize it was my first birthday. Or perchance she knew and didn’t care.