Two
She must put her hair up everyday while in the White City.
In Ithilien her husband does not push the tradition on her, but when they are in Minas Tirith she observes the custom out of respect for him.
Every morning her golden hair is brushed and straighten and pulled until it is tame in the handmaidens quick fingers. Then it is plaited tightly, so tightly that she is certain they will pull the very tresses from her head.
She thinks fondly of her homeland all the while, missing Rohan and her people's own traditions. She thinks of the Golden Hall with its warm wood and the rich colors of the banners of the Riddermark. She thinks of her country, her people, the traditions her mother had taught her so that she might pass them to her own daughter and wonders is her daughter will not think them crude next to the customs of her father's folk.
The handmaidens finish and she is left alone, peering at the face of the familiar stranger that looks back from the looking glass before she rises to start her day in the City of Kings.
At night she returns to their bedchamber before her husband, head throbbing, every strand upon her head begging for release. When her prince finally enters she still removing the carefully placed pins. He moves behind her and completes the task, taking his time as he ensures that every plait is loosened and undone before moving to the next.
She puts her hair up everyday when she is in the White City, every night he lets it down.