Ezra never cared about his hair.

It was just there.

Every now and then he might hack some off to keep it out of his eyes. There were more important things to worry about living on the streets.

His next meal for one. And survival

When he joined the ghost crew that was one thing that didn't change.

Granted, he finally had enough to eat, something he had struggled with ever since his parents disappeared.

But who cared about hair when you were fighting a war?

The bucket-heads certainly weren't going to spare you on account of style.

Then Ahsoka joined up.

And she seemed to love his hair.

Which he always thought was ironic, considering Togrutas didn't have any.

She ruffled it affectionately or when she was proud, blue eyes sparkling.

Like when he did well in training or cracked a joke she liked.

She'd brush his bangs out of his eyes comfortingly when she dried his tears, fingertips soft against his skin.

After he learned about his parents, he'd hidden himself away.

She had found him and held him, never saying a word.

She would stroke it, petting the back of his head like a loth-cat or curl the strands around her fingers absentmindedly.

She would also do this when things were quiet, peaceful.

Sometimes it even made him doze off

She really loved to play with his hair as she reminisced.

It seemed to keep her grounded and keep the demons at bay.

The slight discomfort it caused him was a small price to pay for the stories she'd tell.

They were so much better then Kanan's.

Then she died.

Five days later Zeb ruffled his hair and he fled, ignoring the worried shouts echoing behind him.

Ezra locked himself in the fresher on the Ghost, trying to calm down and unable to do so. He looked up through his bangs at his reflection in the mirror hanging over the sink and noticed his hair for the first time.

Suddenly he was hyper aware of the way his bangs tickled his forehead, ghost fingertips caressing the skin as he pushed it aside.

The feel of the unruly locks falling back into place, spectral eyes dancing as fingers dug into his scalp.

With a growl he grabbed the scissors from beside the sink and began to cut in a frenzy.

When he walked out ten minutes later, only short bristles left on his head and a mess of black locks filling the sink and dusting the floor, he didn't think twice about it.

After all, Ezra never cared about his hair.