Her hands felt round the curves of a pin the color of her hair. Brown; dark and wonderful. It was thick and long, and she often thought, "Mother might've had hair like this." She could never know for certain, but that's what made the game fun; the possibilities seemed infinite.
The small girl, the impressionable age of nine, stood in front of a mirror fiddling with her hair, trying to twist it in the Alderaanian way.
Minutes evaporated into the cool mountain air, and sore arms prompted her to quit, but she persevered until two buns rested around her ears.
She radiated satisfaction and beamed in the mirror. She ran to her adoptive parents and their servants to show them her work. They smiled back at her, and for every kind word spoken, a new warmth spread in Leia's chest and filled her.
A/N: Dusted this idea off a shelf from years ago. It was one of those spontaneous thoughts that fermented in my head one day. I thought it was time to write what was already there.