Silver and Sable

Snip.

Another dark lock of hair slid through Sam’s fingers to the floor. Sam paused to watch it flutter down to join the small pile of curls that had accumulated there already. Sitting in a chair in front of him, Frodo turned his head slightly. “All right there, Sam?” he asked. “Haven’t cut off all of my hair on that side, have you?”

Sam chuckled and gently turned Frodo’s head so that he faced forward again. “Now, Mr. Frodo,” he chided, “you know I wouldn’t do that to you. Leastwise, not the night before the weddin’.”

Sam could hear the grin in his master’s voice. “Yes, whatever would Aragorn say if I presented myself to his bride with half my hair shorn off?”

“I wouldn’t like to guess,” replied Sam as he set to work again. Snip, snip, snip. “Probably should’ve taken a brush to your hair afore I started cuttin’ it, Mr. Frodo,” he remarked after a moment, frowning. “That circlet made a right mess back ’ere.”

“I did brush it!” protested Frodo, reaching up to feel the back of his head for himself.

Sam pushed down his master’s hands. “Just you sit still, sir,” he said firmly. “Or I really will make a mess of it.” He ignored the drawn-out sigh and concentrated on trimming the unruly chestnut curls before him. “Almost done back here, Mr. Frodo.”

There was a companionable silence for a few minutes, broken only by the methodic snip, snip of Sam’s scissors. He allowed himself to become wholly absorbed in his work, carefully measuring each lock before clipping it. The thick tresses were soft and silky between his fingers, slightly damp and smelling of lavender from their recent washing. After their travels through the barren, dust-filled land of Mordor, both Frodo and Sam still considered it a luxury to be able to wash their hair and take warm baths nightly.

With that thought the memory of their night in Crickhollow came to Sam’s mind, and the singing-contest that had ensued while he, Frodo and Pippin had washed off their days of travel. He began to hum under his breath the favorite bath song of old Mr. Bilbo’s that Pippin had sang then.

Frodo stirred at the familiar tune and Sam heard him sigh. “Seems like so long ago,” he said softly. “Being in Crickhollow, trying to beat Pippin in that singing-contest…” He chuckled, but Sam thought it sounded rather sad and hastily spoke up to try and lighten the mood again.

“Still feels a bit like a dream, don’t it, sir?” He moved round to work on the right side of Frodo’s hair. “Bein’ in this great city, among such important folks, wearin’ these fancy clothes…”

“Being bowed to and addressed as ‘my lord’ by everyone we meet?” finished Frodo with a wry smile. “Surrounded by people who want to catch a glimpse of the legendary Halflings—and the Ring-bearer…”

Frodo trailed off and Sam paused as he saw his master absently rub his four-fingered left hand. Quickly, sensing another drift into melancholy, he said cheerfully, “And what about all these feasts? Enough even for a hobbit, I’d say.”

Frodo grinned and glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “I thought you enjoyed the feasts, Sam.”

“I’m fair sick of ’em,” Sam admitted, snipping away at the curls by Frodo’s ear. “Not the food, mind, but bein’ in that great hall with all those grand lords and ladies, bein’ waited on by those servants in their fine clothes…” He trailed off and shook his head, giving one last snip of the scissors before stepping back to admire his handiwork on that side. “Nearly done, sir,” he said in satisfaction. “Just the front, now.”

He moved in front of his master, and they exchanged grins as he surveyed the unruly forelock that moved against Frodo’s eyelashes each time he blinked. “Honestly, sir,” chuckled Sam as he bent and took one dark ringlet in his fingers. Snip. “I don’t know how I went this long without noticin’ how badly you needed a haircut.”

Frodo laughed outright and Sam’s heart swelled at the sound. “Yes, it’s a good thing Peregrin pointed out that I was in mortal danger of tripping over my own feet and threatened to start hacking at this mop of mine with his sword if something wasn’t done.”

Sam laughed along with his master and then quieted as he concentrated on trimming the curls directly above Frodo’s eyes. He slowed and took great care not to accidentally slip and cut his master’s forehead with the scissors. Snip… snip… snip. He hesitated for a moment as he came to a place where the sable locks were threaded with silver.

Unaccountably Sam felt tears welling in his eyes at the sight, and he swallowed hard, trying to control the sudden shaking of his hands. After a moment, he continued clipping, slowly and carefully. He silently reproached himself for reacting so strongly to what shouldn’t come as such a surprise. Or should it…?

Never once in the seventeen years since he first inherited the Ring had Frodo shown the slightest sign of age. During the torturous trek through Mordor he’d been worn and weary, with lines of pain and fear etched on his brow and around his eyes, but even then the face had remained that of the young hobbit just out of his tweens. The thick curly hair had remained as dark as ever, untouched by frost.

Until now. The face was the same as ever, young and fair, like an Elf’s, but now that chestnut forelock was flecked by silver, and somehow that shook Sam more than perhaps it should have. He supposed that it meant that the Ring was at last beginning to release its hold on Frodo’s body, and he was grateful and relieved beyond words for that, but he had not prepared for the change, however small, and it came as a shock.

Glancing at his master, Sam saw with relief that his eyes were closed against the fall of hair, and he had not noticed the sudden tightening of Sam’s face. Sam drew a silent breath, and forced himself to refocus on the task at hand.

Snip, snip… With one last snip, Sam stepped back and nodded in satisfaction. “There you are, Mr. Frodo!” he said, hiding his earlier fright beneath a sunny smile as Frodo opened his eyes. “I expect you can see properly now.”

Frodo grinned. “Yes, thank you Sam,” he said, running his fingers through his shortened locks experimentally. “It’s nice to have my hair a respectable length again.” He looked around the room with raised eyebrows. “Ah, so this is what my room looks like! I hadn’t realized it was this large.”

Sam laughed and set the scissors down on top of the bureau. “Just wait ’til you see the rest of the city,” he said playfully. “It’s bigger’n all of Hobbiton put together!” As Frodo made to stand up he added, “Now wait half a minute, sir. Let me find that hairbrush and give that mop o’ yours a bit of a brushin’.”

Frodo rolled his eyes but obediently remained still while Sam went in search of a hairbrush. “You are worse than Bilbo, Sam!” he said when the gardener returned. “Bilbo used to get positively fussy before our Birthday Parties.” He ran a hand through his hair again. “But I have to admit you do a better job cutting it than Bilbo did sometimes. Or at least, so it feels…”

Sam grinned and again moved behind his master, now wielding the hairbrush. “Soon as I’m done brushin’, I’ll get you the hand mirror an’ you can make sure it turned out all right,” he promised as he began to brush through the thick chestnut curls. “Ah, you’re in luck, Mr. Frodo. This ain’t as bad as I thought at first.”

Frodo gave a muffled yelp as the hairbrush snagged on a tangle. “You’re supposed to be brushing it, Sam, not tearing it out!”

Sam brushed through the snarl and continued more gingerly. “Sorry, sir,” he muttered.

“Don’t worry, Sam.” Frodo reached up to pat Sam’s wrist. “I was only teasing. I’m sure that my hair could not be in safer hands.”

Sam chuckled and made a few last strokes with the brush. “There, Mr. Frodo!” he said brightly. “All finished now. You can get up.”

Frodo stood, pulling off the towel that had covered his shoulders and shaking the hair clippings out of it. He glanced at the pile of them around the chair. “Heavens, Sam, how much did you cut off?” he said in surprise. “It doesn’t look as though you’ve left a hair left.”

Before Sam could answer Frodo went over to the bureau and picked up a hand mirror, looking at his reflection critically. After a few moments, he turned to Sam with a grin. “All right, Sam,” he said, “you have my approval. This is certainly the best haircut I’ve had in years! Why didn’t I have you cutting my hair before?”

Sam laughed and went to fetch a dustpan and broom. “I’d be happy to do it, sir,” he said as he began sweeping up the hair clippings. “Leastwise, I can’t do no worse than Mr. Merry.”

Frodo shuddered at the memory of a particularly horrendous haircut he’d suffered at the hands of his cousin several years ago. He got down on his knees by the chair and helped Sam gather up the dark curls scattered on the floor. “No one can do worse than Merry,” he said, shaking his head. “He should not be allowed anywhere near a pair of scissors, ever again.”

They had just finished sweeping up the hair clippings when there came a loud, insistent knock at the door. “Hoy, Frodo!” came Pippin’s voice. “Are you ever coming out? You’ll be late for tonight’s feast!”

Frodo exchanged a grin with Sam and called back, “Hold a minute, Pippin! Just because you’re a Guard of the Citadel now doesn’t mean you can nag your elder cousin like that!”

As Frodo walked over to the bureau and picked up the silver circlet lying atop it, Pippin banged again at the door. “Now that I’m a Guard of the Citadel I can have you dragged out of there if you don’t hurry up!”

Frodo, with the mirror held in one hand, used the other to place the circlet upon his hair. “Ha! You’d have Aragorn and Gandalf to deal with were you to do that, you great giant.”

There was an indignant snort from behind the door. “‘Great giant,’ indeed! Fancy insulting a Knight of Gondor like that. I’ll have you know, cousin, that I’m under orders from the King himself to make sure you arrive at the feast safe and sound. And on-time.”

Frodo laughed. “I find it hard to believe that the King would trust you to a task like that, Peregrin,” he replied. “But you will just have to wait a moment more. Sam has just finished giving me that long-needed haircut.”

Pippin laughed and finally opened the door, striding in with his livery of sable and silver. “It’s about time, too!” he teased. He bent slightly and pushed the now tidier dark curls up from Frodo’s brow. “Good glory, cousin, you’re recognizable now!” He peered closer. “So that’s what color your eyes are. I’d forgotten after so long without being able to see them.”

Frodo slapped Pippin’s hand away, laughing. “D’you hear him, Sam? This cheeky young git has no respect for his elders. And betters,” he added with a smirk in Pippin’s direction.

Pippin snorted incredulously. “Elderly, you mean,” he corrected as he rearranged the circlet. “Old age must be catching up to you at last if you think that Baggins is a better name than Took.”

Frodo frowned and twitched the circlet back into place. “Now you’ve got it crooked, Peregrin,” he said. “It’s going to be your fault if we’re late to the feast.”

Pippin held up his hands. “Have it your way, cousin,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “But you cannot blame me if you choose to arrive in disarray.”

Frodo made a face at him and gave the circlet a final tug. “Well, if you are quite ready, Master Pippin,” he said straight-faced, “then you may lead the way to the feast.”

Pippin bowed extravagantly and linked arms with Frodo. “But of course, My Lord,” he replied. “Let us be off.”

Frodo turned to Sam and motioned for him to join them. “It’s a good thing you were dressed properly an hour ago, Sam,” he said as they headed for the door, arm-in-arm. “I doubt that this young firebrand here would wait another minute for either of us.”

“Indeed not!” agreed Pippin. “The King would have my head if I didn’t get you two to the feast, properly dressed or no.”

Sam said nothing, but smiled to himself as his master laughed along with Pippin. His eyes sparkling an indescribable blue, the silver circlet shining bright against his brow amidst the mass of lustrous chestnut curls, his cheeks flushed with high spirits, Frodo looked like a prince—and almost exactly like the young master Sam had once known, back home in the Shire.

~The End~