Gray turned over the lock of straw colored hair over and over again in his hand. It was soft. Softer than anything in the world. Well actually, that was probably a dramatic exaggeration. The hair was defiantly softer than anything his calloused hands felt.
His hands were used to hard metal and splintery wood. Nothing like the buttery smooth hair he held in his hand. It was a nice change.
The nice change made a bubble of rage rise up in his stomach. Clenching the lock in his hand he threw it on the ground with a menacing glare across his face.
Because a lock of hair was all it was. There was no longer an owner to the hair. There was no longer a snarky blonde farmer to have the lock attached to her head. There was no longer his wife. There was no longer a place for him to place his calloused hand. There was no longer a reason to be happy.