▽
When Kathryn eventually cut her hair on Voyager she told herself it was a decision motivated solely by practicality. It was a lot easier to manage, after all. But there was another factor she had not been entirely aware of, and that was the way Chakotay sometimes looked at it, whether it was piled up on top of her head on the bridge or it was spilling loose over her shoulders when he would stop by her quarters… It reminded her keenly of New Earth, of the tension between them. Sometimes it also reminded her of Mark and his fondness for her hair. At times, it even reminded her of Justin… She had always been rather insecure about her appearance. A side effect of having a strikingly beautiful sister. She had found her hair particularly uninspiring. Phoebe’s hair was dark and curly, while hers was some color that was hard to define, and was straight and flat. She was constantly changing her hairstyle trying to find something that “worked” for her, something complicated further by Starfleet regulations. The fact that all of her lovers (or almost lovers) seemed to find her hair alluring had gratified her.
And though some part of her enjoyed Chakotay’s appreciative glances, she knew nothing could come of it. It only invited complication and confusion. Subconsciously, cutting it was representative of her accepting that what it seemed she might share with Chakotay on New Earth wasn’t going to happen, and what she had thought she would share with Mark back on Earth wasn’t going to happen either. (Deep down she knew Mark would have moved on by that point. She told herself she was still hoping…but really she wasn’t even sure she wanted to hope anymore.)
Somehow her hair had come to represent her more romantic side, and it was time to try to let that go, accept the loss, and move on. While she may not have been conscious of this thought, she knew she needed a change.
However, the first time she attempted this, she disliked it so much that she actually had the Doctor stimulate her hair follicles so she could quickly grow it back out. A considerable amount of time after that, she decided to cut it again, telling herself once more that a shorter hairstyle would be more practical for a Captain always on the edge of crisis in the Delta Quadrant. This time it took. She came to like the style. It was less heavy (in perhaps more ways than one) than her bun of steel (she was aware that some of the crew liked to call it that). A part of her always missed the longer hair though. She thought perhaps that when she was home, when the ship wasn’t under constant threat of attack that found her being called to emergencies on a regular basis, she would grow it out again. (When appreciative glances wouldn’t just remind her of what she couldn’t have…)
