Free Why I Let My Hair Grow Out by Maryrose Wood

stop laughing. poor fergus was confused by my reaction. “Why do you laugh when I speak of the faeries?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s just, ‘faery folk’—it means something different where I come from, that’s all.” I had to wipe tears out of my eyes. I hate that I cry when I laugh, but I do. That was one of the reasons I stopped joking around with Raph. I got tired of him telling me my mascara was wrecked and I should go fix it.
    â€œOh, tell us!” demanded Erin. “How are your faery folk different from ours? Are they good or evil? Can you see them and speak to them? Do they steal away children and leave changelings in their cribs instead? Do they come out in the daytime or only at night?”
    The kid wanted an answer, so I calmed myself and obliged. “Where I come from, the faery folk are this group of guys that come to your house and redecorate when you’re not home,” I explained. “They cut your hair and throw away all your clothes. Then they buy you new ones.”
    â€œThe rogues!” said Erin, wide-eyed. “So they’re evil faeries!”
    â€œNo, they mean well,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “They think they’re being helpful. Sometimes they totally trash your stuff and make fun of your favorite shirt, but then sometimes they give you a plasma TV, and that chills most people out. It’s all in fun.”
    â€œIt’s the same as here, then.” Erin sighed. “Mischief is bread and mead to the faery folk.”
    What kind of kid uses a word like “mead”? I cracked up again.
    Fergus saw me laughing and crying. “She’s a queer one for sure, that Morganne,” he said, elbowing Erin in the ribs.
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even in dreams little sisters eventually get put to bed, and after Erin was asleep Fergus asked me to walk through the village with him. The yummy drink he’d given me had definitely taken the edge off my worry about when and how this dream might end, so I decided to consider it a dream date and try to enjoy myself.
    We stayed inside the “dun,” which seemed to mean the large circular embankment that surrounded all the houses. There were goats and chickens running about, small fires burning in front of houses, women churning butter, men cleaning the horses’ harnesses and people doing their end-of-day chores pretty much as they still do today, except without any labor-saving appliances or cable TV to channel surf when the work is done.
    Everywhere we walked, people nodded respectfully to Fergus, and pointed and whispered when they saw me. A couple of women started to shriek and ran into their houses. Not what you’d call a big self-esteem builder. I finally asked Fergus what was going on.
    He scuffed his leather-clad feet. “It’s been foretold by our Druid priests that King Conor will never be cured of his curse until he is wed to a maiden of fire and gold.” Fergus smiled at me, a little shy. “Perhaps they think you are the one?”
    â€œWhy me? I don’t get it.”
    â€œYour hair, Morganne,” said Fergus, gently lifting a wavy lock of my new Rapunzel tresses till it shone in the flickering light of a nearby fire. “Yellow and red, and it glitters like polished metal—surely it is the color of fire and gold.”
    â€œDude, I’m sixteen,” I cried. “I’m not getting married!”
    He dropped my hair and looked at me kindly. “True, ’tis old to not have a husband already chosen, but you shouldn’t despair of it yet, Morganne!” His eyes were a twinkling, cornflower blue. “There’s many a good man who would take you to his hearth, and gladly.” He glanced away again. These ancient warrior types could be bashful about girls, apparently.
    â€œWell, I’m not marrying any farting old king, that’s for sure,” I said, and he laughed.
    â€œAye.” He took my arm as we