When I cut my hair to relieve myself from the constant trickle of sweat pooling at the nape of my neck, I thought the entire district was going to riot. Haymitch's jaw actually went slack and hung slightly ajar the first time I walked into his house after making the split second decision one unbearable summer afternoon. I could tell there were a million different comments swimming through his head, but he couldn't pull himself together to utter a single one. I smirked at the small victory, taking pleasure in finally leaving him stunned beyond belief.

Greasy Sae actually gasped aloud, her hand flying to her chest when she first laid eyes on me after I hacked it off in the bathroom with a dull pair of scissors. She muttered a few incoherent words under her breath, then slowly raised her hand and rested it on my shoulder, still clutching her heart as if I had stabbed her. My question of if she was alright was answered solely with a sad shake of her head.

Even with Haymitch's, Greasy Sae's, and Hazelle's reactions, I didn't think much of it. It was simply hair, dead protein slowly pushing its way out of my body. It wasn't something I had stopped to contemplate. It was a hindrance that had been easily remedied, and that was it.

Until I saw Peeta's reaction. I walked into the bakery late afternoon, the handle of the door warmed by the constant glare of the sun as I pulled it open. He didn't glance up at first, bent over at the waist to retrieve a few pastries from the display while a young woman waited patiently. I noted the way her eyes took in every move of his muscles, every twitch of his fingers as he delicately plucked the pastries from their resting spot and wrapped them to go.

My own eyes twitched irritably at the sight. Which was ridiculous, but not really. On one hand, I had no real claim to Peeta. We had our moments when we were drawn together as if by some force of nature neither of us could fight, but we hardly ever mentioned those moments. At present, we were only friends. A weird definition of friendship, perhaps, but friends nonetheless. But this girl, so blatantly ogling him, did not know that. To the rest of the world, we were married, and blissfully so. And there she was, gawking at him like she wanted to dig into him with a fork and eat his heart out.

"What did you do?" His voice cracked in surprise as it rang out around the bakery. Several patrons sitting at the intricately designed metal tables glanced up in surprise. Even I startled in place, glancing around to find the offender. For a moment, I thought perhaps the girl had tried something untoward. Then I realized he was looking directly at me.

"What?" I asked, glancing around, still surprised at his outburst and wondering what I had done.

"Katniss, your hair," he stuttered in a state of shock.

"What about it?" I realized, then, his surprise, though I hadn't expected such a strong reaction. Still, I played it off as if it were nothing. To me, it hardly was.

"It's... gone."

"Not all of it," I assured him, as if he couldn't see the end result of my hack job myself. "It's hot," I added in my own defense.

Snapping his focus back to the customer in front of him, he finished wrapping up her goods. When he asked her if there was anything else he could help her with, I watched as she hesitated. Like she wanted to say more. I silently dared her to, but my own presence there must have taken away what little nerve she possessed. With a bashful shake of her head, she took the bag and scurried out the door.

Peeta followed quickly in her footsteps, pulling his white apron up over his head and tossing it onto the counter and he came around the displays and moved to stand before me. The look of shock was still clear as day on his face, and he couldn't seem to get over the fact that I'd given myself a haircut. His hand moved to take the ends of my hair, his wrist brushing against my shoulder.

"Tell me this isn't something I should worry about," he said after a long pause, still running strands of my hair through his fingers. As if he thought my haircut was some kind of masterful illusion.

"Peeta," I laughed, dropping my hands on his shoulders. "The heat just became too intolerable. That is all," I promised. I wasn't sure where his question even came from. Why would cutting my hair be cause for concern? I made a mental note to ask the doctor his thoughts during our next session.

"It's so short."

"It's not that short," I protested, but for the first time I briefly understood what everyone's hang up with my hair was. It had been a part of me, a part of my symbol. A part of the Mockingjay. My signature braid had been a thing all of its own, a simple gesture by my mother that had turned into so much more. To me, it had hardly mattered, but to the people of Panem, it had meant something real. A tiny bit of regret pushed through me, but it didn't last. I didn't have to follow their rules anymore. I was my own person, capable of making my own decisions. I only answered to myself.

And to Peeta, I realized. I hadn't thought cutting my hair would have mattered, but he had such a strange look in his eyes. "I should have asked you first."

"Don't be stupid," he replied, though he still toyed with my hair. "It's your hair, your body. If it's too hot, then cut it off. Simple at that." Only, it clearly wasn't that simple.

"But you hate it."

"Actually," he said as a coy smile formed in the corner of his lips, "I actually kind of like it. It's different, but it still feels like you." After a moment's hesitation, he released the ends of my hair, his hand moving closer to my head. Pushing his fingers through my hair, he ran his hand across my part, all the way down to my neck. "It's kind of sexy," he added, his voice dropped low.

"Well, you aren't the first one to have a coronary today." I chose to ignore his last comment, not sure how to process it in that moment.

"I'm sure the Capitol will have cameras here as soon as word gets out. This will be the juiciest gossip since the Tribute Memorial."

The mention of the memorial was like a punch to the gut. It brought up so many different memories, rushing through my head all at once. The two of us, on the train. Annie and the baby. Seeing Gale. Kissing Gale. Effie's dismay. I shook all the thoughts from my head at once. "Maybe you could trim it even for me, before the cameras come."

"Of course," Peeta said as he pulled his hand away and dropped his arm to his side. Tilting his head slightly back and to his right, he added, "I'd better get back. I've got a few loaves in the oven."

"Sure," I murmured. Then I remembered why I'd walked to the bakery in the first place. "If you can manage a day off tomorrow, I'd like to take you somewhere for the day." The blistering, oppressive heat reminded me of the lake, and how I used to swim to escape from it when I was younger. Peeta hadn't experience the lake yet, and though it had taken me a while to work up to it, I was ready to share that part of my life with him. The doctor said I needed to open up and let the people I cared about in, and this was a good first step for me.

"Can you live with a half day? I could open in the morning and close up at lunch."

"Sound great," I replied with a smile as he walked backward toward the kitchen. Peeta was a quick study in many aspects, and I was fairly confident I could teach him to swim in that amount of time, if he was even interested. "I'll see you for dinner?" I asked as he pushed the door into the kitchen open with his back.

"I'll be hungry," he promised before he disappeared back to work.