As 5275 stares up at the tree, thinking maybe she should be faster about it, a child wanders over from behind a pile of broken cement and rebar. Dirty from head to toe. Snot dripping down its ungendered nose. 

Boy. Girl. Whatever. Babies, they all look the same.

The young child looks at her and begins to cry.

I would cry too, baby. I would cry too.

“Why are you crying, Genesis?"

A man peeks his head out of the broken house to look at the child. He’s in his early thirties. His forearms are muscular and tan.

Farmer? But there is nothing to farm out here? Baker? 

 He gives one look at 5275 and frowns.

“You’re a soldier?” Surprisingly with more sadness than disdain.

“There are no more soldiers. At least that’s what they tell me.” 5275 starts to roll over her body in an attempt to move away from the house. 

He probably doesn't want to see some soldier die underneath his tree.I just wanted to sit here and try to die again. I’ll have to go somewhere else now.

He looks at 5275 in the eyes and grins, moving away from the sorrow into a naive and candid smile.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I am seeing you. Did you just walk out of there? Do they still have people there? I can’t remember the last person I saw look like you.” He moves closer to 5275 when he sees her wince from her movements.

His questions become faster and faster in response. With excitement, wonder, and a bit of worry in his voice. He moves towards her, squats down, and puts his hand on her elbow to get ready to pull her up.

"Please don't. Please don't touch me." My insides feel like they are being torn into two different directions. Everything around me sounds loud. The grass he's stepping on. The scrapping of my back against the tree. Everything sounds in as much agony as I feel.

Abruptly, the man pulls her up in one shot and lets all of her weight fall into him, and they walk silently to the house.

“Please come in. Please come in and tell me your story.” He says quietly as he moves away the curtain and they walk into the shack of a home.

In the midst of this, the child stops crying and follows 5275 in. She can feel the tiny thing staring at her head.

In comparison to their long wailing yells, Genesis’ normal voice is quiet.

“Why is their hair funny?”

“Their hair isn’t funny. It is just long, Genesis. There used to be a time when having long hair meant that you were well healthy, wealthy, and wise. So the saying goes. It also meant that you were a woman.”

“Am I a woman? Will my hair be long?”

“Long hair is no longer a sign of wealth, because we are all equal. All hair is short. Maintained. Less lice and disease. At least for right now."

“I want to have long hair!”

The man turns to 5275, “I’m sorry, um… person. You must have it hard. Do you need something to cut your hair? It stands out a bit too much here. You should probably cut it off. By the way, what is your name?”

“I don’t plan on staying.”

“Wherever you go. It will probably be an issue.”

My hair, an issue. This was my disguise for so long. When needed in the field I could become a wealthy heiress, a top official, an intellectual. Fragranced hair. Shiny, long. That meant something. Now it means that I don’t belong. Another sign that I am no longer needed.

“Okay. Do you want me to do this?”

“Well, you have to. That’s global policy” 

It is like getting orders again. Tell me what to do so I don’t have to think.

“I think there are scissors still around. Might not be very sharp though.”

“How do you cut your hair?”

“We go into the barbers for the monthly cut. Everyone gets a cut on a designated day.”

He goes to the back of his closet and pulls out a pair of scissors. The jagged edges tells me they haven’t been sharpened and they have been used to cut too many things.

“Do you want to do it? Or do you want me?”

“I’ll do what I can. If I leave out a piece, let me know.”

5274 sits on a stool as she watches Genesis’ eyes go from curiosity to horror. They picked up a piece of hair and looked at it puzzled. They held it from end to end.

“It is almost bigger than me.”

“You must have had this for a long time. People started cutting their hair maybe four years ago. How have you had it for so long?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how many years it has been.”

I continue to feel around my head for stragglers. My straight black hair falling down onto my shoulders and legs. A small pile had collected. It almost looks like a cat.

"You could probably sell this. Or at least you used to be able to. Not sure about anymore. There used to be a market for wigs."

"If you can sell it, feel free to. I don’t need this anymore."

5275 hears the snip of the scissors. The struggle to cut even a few strands of hair at a time. This would be faster with a knife.

I remember the day I was supposed to do this before.

---------

5274 stands in line for the barber behind four other soldiers. As she moves up the line, a hand pulls her shoulder and turns her around. Nyx stands in front of her, grabs her wrist, and pulls her out of the line.

"No, not you, 5275. You need to keep your hair. You will need this, and a wig won’t work for where you're going. You have to have real hair."

"Real hair?"

"Do you know that people are being forced to shave now? To cut off their hair? Well, except for elite. It makes it easier to spot low-class. You have to look healthy, wealthy, and wise when you need to."

He playfully pulls my hair.

"Yes, when you need to. You need to take care of this because you will definitely need it."