Fenris noticed that, out of all the others in their group, Hawke never cut her hair. Well, that was a lie; she trimmed it when it was too unruly for her to handle, with split ends that made her look like a child who had never been touched by a comb or scissors. Her black hair was always messy, no matter its length, but as the years passed, it grew like vines on the walls of her estate.

Before they had ventured into the Deep Roads with Varric and his traitorous brother, Hawke's hair had been a short mess of black feathers on her head. Fenris' hair had been far longer than hers, as she could barely run her fingers through it without scratching her scalp. She would pull at the small locks everytime she was annoyed, when Anders begged her to have mercy on some mage or another or when Merrill pleaded with her, telling her the demon she had consorted with was friendly. When Isabella had flirted with her she would scratch the short fuzz on the back of her neck and blush. Her hair was as short as her temper then, when she would yell as she ran into battle, her daggers drawn and already lashing out at raiders and slavers before anyone else in their party had noticed the danger. She would slice into her enemies and run to the next one, covered in blood. Sometimes Fenris forgot what color her hair and armor really were. She would so often leave the battle soaked through with the blood. The saccharine liquid would give her a kind of ethereal shine, like it was the only thing that kept her there, with him. She would smile through the blood and wounds, ignoring the pain to show him that she was okay.

Before the Qunari attacked Kirkwall, her hair had been longer; not Aveline or Isabela's length, but a bit longer than her sister's. Fenris noticed that her hair had shown how much she had grown in three years, from the cocky, brash rogue who was finally done paying her debt to the smugglers and was free. She was nobility now, above him. She was so much more calm, not gentle per sae, but understanding where she had over reacted. She was no longer a woman who wished for her own life, she was a woman who had her own life, and more.
The small strands that managed to escape her hair tie framed her tattoos perfectly, curving along with them down the sides of her face. Her hair made her eyes pop, the already bright and eager blue made even more noticeable by the contrast between her dark hair and tanned skin. Fenris always wondered what her father looked like; Hawke neither resembled her mother or sister, except with the shape of their lips. She must've gotten her looks from her paternal family.

In the three years after she became the Champion, She had given up trying to keep her hair under control. She began putting it in a messy bun high on her head, so it wouldn't get caught in her armor or be grabbed by an enemy who thought about fighting dirty. More than once, during their regular Wicked Grace card games, Hawke would let Merrill and Isabela take her hair down and braid it; Fenris remembered her leaving the Hanged Man with him one night with a beautiful green feather and several beads woven into her hair. When he had asked, she glanced away nervously, telling him that she wasn't one for looking that way. She had told him that looking so feminine, so much like her mother or Bethany made her feel wrong. That she was the family's protector, that she didn't have such time for pretty hair that got in the way. Even without her mother and sister, she still felt wrong. With her hair almost waist length, she could easily take it down and hide behind the thick locks when she was afraid. She had, on occasion, done so, when Isabela asked how she had spent the night before; she did not spend it alone, as she and Fenris now spent most nights together at her estate. They did not sleep much. She could hide her blush behind the curtain of hair, or a scowl when Anders said she was soft on the Templars.

Hawke's hair grew as much as she had in the six years she had been in Kirkwall with Fenris and their friends. But after Meredith, after the Chantry, she left. She told no one where she was going; she left letters for each of her friends, she had left a few sovereigns for each. She woke Fenris one night, a few days after all had been said and done, and told him to pack everything he thought he would need. She sat on his bed as he gathered his belongings in a tattered burlap sack a took a knife to her hair and cut it off; as short as it had been when she first got off the boat and stepped foot in Kirkwall. Fenris watched in amazement as six years washed away from her face, falling in a small pile on the floor. They would leave Kirkwall together. They would leave the last six years of their lives, and while Hawke looked like the young, angry woman she had been, Fenris knew that she was far from it.