Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair…

Of course, that’s exactly what I didn’t want her to do, let down her hair, display herself to the world, set herself up as modern, freethinking.
God knows she fought against it
“Why do I have to live like this?”
“Why won’t you let me do what i want?”
“You’re so unfair!”

On and on the battle went, she moaned, she sulked, she tossed that oh so beautiful hair, she even tried tears.

But I remained firm, obdurate, because I knew that I was right and besides I had tradition on my side.

She thought I knew nothing about the world, that I was out of touch, old fashioned, but who was out there, out in the real world, seeing the depravity, the filth, the danger on every corner ?

Not her, safe in the tower I made for her, reading her romantic novels and waiting for her prince to come, she was the one who knew nothing.

And its not as if I kept her in some sort of prison, her tower had everything a girl could need, pink walls, soft furnishings, small fluffy animals.

But above all, she was safe there.
I’ve seen the way that men look at young women, hungry, calculating, but no one ever thinks of that when they made me the baddie in this story.

It’s easy to write off tradition,to say it doesn’t matter anymore, that modernity is all that matters , that we should just throw away all the old ways of doing things.

I did what I thought was best, for her, for our honour, for our standing in the community and she threw it all back at me, decided she knew what was best.

The lies went on for months, she would look me full in the face, smile sweetly, call me mother dearest and then the moment my back was turned, she too turned away from everything i had ever taught her.

I don’t known where she found him, some footless, rootless wanderer, just happened to pass the tower and fall in love with her voice. Excuse me while I sneer.

If he had been a decent boy, he would have known what the tower meant, would have known to walk on by,find one of his own, but he had to get involved.

So, you know what happened next, she walks away from everything to be with this boy, this so-called prince.

And I was left, with an empty tower, members of my own community rushed to stand in judgement, fingers pointing, gossip behind my back.


My daughter is dead to me.

I hear she’s cut her hair off, the irony is not lost on me.


About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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