Author's Note: This story was actually inspired by a line from one of my other stories: "He
paused and ran a hand through his hair, now shorn to a more respectable length and faded to a slate gray that seemed to match his eyes." In that particular fanfic, I was aiming to describe Russell Crowe's Javert while still keeping a bit of the original. That got me to thinking... The traditional Javert's long hair is almost as much a part of him as his sideburns. It's the one little wild streak, the one vanity, that he allows himself. What would happen if he had been forced to cut it? What impact would it have? As someone who has never had more than a trim, I know how much my hair means to me, so I figured I'd play around with what it means to Javert. Hope you like it!

~CaptainHooksGirl~

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis or Javert...or his pretty hair.

Samson

Javert walked stiffly down the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer, his usual serious expression made more threatening by the deep creases on his brow and the worried lines of troubled frown. He had been promoted to inspector general—an honor that would have made any other man on the police force happy. But Javert had never been like other men. He was grateful for the raise, of course; humbled by the respect that he had earned; perhaps even a bit shocked considering his less-than-perfect background—but happy, he was not. He shouldn't have been surprised, he supposed, that advancing his career would come with certain conditions, but it made him stop and wonder just exactly what price he was willing to pay for success.

He stopped in front of a small shop window, glancing briefly at the red-and-white-striped pole before his eyes wandered to the transparent reflection in the glass, pulling his ponytail off to the side and fingering it thoughtfully. After a moment's hesitation he sighed and, removing his hat, resolutely pushed open the door. A small brass bell announced his arrival, summoning the young store attendant from the back of the shop where the evidence of a previous customer's presence was being swept into a dustbin. The young man looked up and, laying the broom aside, smiled when he recognized the imposing figure in the doorway.

"Ah, Monsieur Javert! Come in! Have a seat."

Javert complied but did not return the smile, his angular features never once changing their stony expression. Wordlessly, he placed the hat in his lap and reached back, freeing his hair from the neatly tied silken ribbon, long, dark locks spilling rebelliously down his back to just below the shoulder blades. It was the last connection to his gypsy heritage, the one eccentricity that he'd refused to give up. It was the only part of him that had remained stubbornly defiant despite his otherwise neat and tidy appearance, and for all his talk of order and authority, the tiny flicker of humanity that still burned within his heart took pride in this quiet act of dissention that separated the man from the law. He closed his eyes, as if in pain.

But the barber seemed not to have noticed. "What can I do for you today?" he asked, pulling a pair of scissors off the counter. "Just the usual trim?"

The inspector raised his head. "Cut it off."

The scissors clattered to the floor. "W-what?!"

"You heard me," Javert replied sternly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Cut it off."

The young man frowned, unsure. "Are you certain, monsieur?"

"Quite."

"But—"

"I don't pay you to talk to me, Pelletier. If you'll not do it, I've no problem with taking my business elsewhere—better yet, I'll do it myself!" He reached for the fallen shears, blades glinting mockingly in the afternoon sunlight, only to have his massive paw arrested by a slighter, paler hand.

"Oh, no! There's no need for that, monsieur! I will cut it if that is what you wish."

"It is." But his posture said otherwise.

Pelletier shrugged. "Whatever you say, monsieur. But I think it's a shame."

At the first snip of the blades, Javert felt himself tense. A single black wave cut loose tumbled to the ground, pooling in a limp little heap at his feet like a dead snake. Another snip, and it was joined by its brother. A few more, and it was beginning to resemble a puddle of ink.

Gloved hands clenched the brim of his hat with such ferocity that the stiffened silk began to crumple, jaw set squarely, lips drawn in a tight seam. Had it been any other man, the barber would have sworn he saw a tear sparkling in those dark eyes, but if it was present, Javert dared not let it fall. And Pelletier dared not question him.

With each cut, he felt a little stab of pain. A trickle of mercy slipped out; a little bitterness seeped in, a little resentment for the world that thought less of a man because of the color of his skin and a little resentment of himself for silently agreeing. It was as if a part of him were being strangled, the heartwood severed from its roots until it had been sucked dry, leaving the empty cells to either rot or petrify.

Under the law, every man is equal.

It did not occur to him that it was, in fact, the law that had required he have a "more respectable appearance."

At long last, the clipping stopped, and he sighed. The young man handed him a mirror, which he was reluctant to use, the olive complexion he knew he would see a glaring reminder of the filth he could not wash away; other men washed white, but he had been born with a tarnished soul. Nevertheless, he accepted the hand mirror and proceeded to inspect the damage. But the man staring back at him was unrecognizable. He hesitated but for a moment, then set the mirror down.

"Good," he muttered.

Standing up from the chair, Javert replaced his hat and pulled a few coins from his pocket. As he paid the man and walked out the door, he allowed himself one last glance over his shoulder. The remains of the gypsy were left scattered on the floor, the final strands of his humanity swept out with the trash. Javert did not mourn their loss but neither could he quite bring himself to rejoice in their passing.