Author's Note: Another fic that I wrote for a friend ages ago and I've just gotten around to moving to my profile now.
His hair didn't prevent him from from catching and throwing the Quaffle during Quidditch matches. He just never actually remembered catching or throwing the Quaffle, just hearing the slap of hands on the ball or the clean whoosh as it went through one of the hoops. He wasn't sure if this meant that he was so caught up in the moment that he didn't have visual memories or he was just so good that he didn't need to see the ball or his teamates to know what to do. He rather hoped it was the former.
In any case, Quidditch was one thing that James Potter's hair never got in the way of.
The game would end, and if Gryffindor won, which, he was proud to say, they generally did, they would do a victory lap around the pitch and this would be when his hair would get in the way. The crowd would amuse him, sometimes, by their cheering, because Peter would tell him later about all the great things he'd done, and Padfoot would slap him on the shoulder, and Remus would confirm it, but right now anything thing that he got cheered for he wouldn't remember.
So he would scope out the crowd below, and this was when his hair got in the way. He would rake his hand through his hair so hopefully it would stay out of the way, and for whatever reason the crowd went wild for it. He'd see Peter whooping and Sirius smirking and laughing and pointing and Remus shaking his head and laughing.
And he began to notice that Lily Evans' hair really shone in the sunlight, and he began touseling his hair just before he flew over her in the hopes that she would look up and smile and her hair would catch the light.