She tried to avoid putting her hair up. Even when she was training, she would twist her hair loosely over her shoulder or would just learn to fight around the curtain of the hair. She claimed that it was just preparation for the worst case scenario. What if she were attacked and had no time or way to tie back her hair? She didn’t want any excuse to be at a disadvantage in a fight.
Really, she didn’t want anyone to see her scar. A jagged mark making three sides of a crudely drawn box, starting at her hair line and cutting down her neck, distorted by growth over the years. She had been six when she’d been cut, and now, sixteen years later, the lines were still red and raised. She never wanted people to see it because they always made shocked sounds, or worse, tried to reach out and touch it. Worst of all, they would ask what had happened or where it came from.
And she would always lie, making up some story about a childhood accident or something, because she couldn’t bear to tell the truth. To admit it had been a parting gift from her father as he finally fell over the edge of insanity, well, that would just be too much for her.