Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow - Sif's Story

Sif woke to silence. That alone was suspicious. Thor usually snored like a frost giant drowning in mead, rattling the beams until she threatened him with a pillow. But this morning—quiet.

She stretched, reached to rake her fingers through her hair…and froze. Her hand brushed only smooth skin.

Her heart thudded. She bolted upright, staggered to the bronze mirror. The blanket slid off her shoulders. A bald woman stared back at her—bare, exposed, wrong.

“No. No, no, no.”

Thor stirred, blinking groggily. He squinted, rubbed his eyes, then gaped. “Your hair!”

Thank you, darling. “Your perception astounds,” she muttered, pulling the blanket around her head.

Thor’s face went crimson, fury gathering like thunder. “Who did this? Who dares lay hand on you?”

She knew. Trickster. Pest. Professional nuisance. But naming him outright was asking for Thor to tear the roof down before he got to the culprit. Better to nudge.

“Could be anyone,” she said, voice sharp as glass. “Anyone who thrives on humiliation. Who laughs at us. Who you forgive every time.”

Thor’s brows knit. Then lit. “Loki. It was Loki!”

She widened her eyes, mock-innocent. “Truly, your brilliance leaves me in awe.”

He leapt up, fists clenched. “I’ll crush him! Rip him apart!”

Yes, go punch the air, love, she thought dryly. He kissed her cheek—half-hearted romance at its finest—and stormed out, vowing to drown Loki in his own blood.

The door slammed. Silence again.

Sif sagged onto the bed, scalp tingling under the blanket. She imagined the looks already. The whispers. Thor could rage, but she was the one who’d be paraded before the gods with her shame bare for all to see.

And she was right. When she ventured into the halls, Heimdall froze mid-step. Freyr smirked. Even sweet Baldr faltered in his greeting. A polished shield caught her reflection—pale, diminished. She fled before anyone spoke.

She slammed her door, stalking through the chamber, cursing Loki under her breath. “May your tongue rot, may your lies strangle you. Why do we even let you breathe here?”

Fury carried her past the mirror—until she stopped.

The blanket slipped. Light fell on the smooth arc of her skull.

She blinked. Tilted her head.

“Well hello, gorgeous.”

Without the gold curtain, her eyes gleamed brighter. Her cheekbones cut sharp. Her jawline looked fierce.

“Well, cheekbones. Glad you showed up to the party,” she whispered. She smirked, trying a profile. “And those eyes? They’ve been hiding under hair for too long.”

She grinned. This wasn’t weakness—it was power with bite.

“Oh, this is trouble,” she said, and darted for her paints.

Thor thundered back later, sweaty and smug. He kissed her forehead, missing entirely the emerald shadow that now fanned from her eyes, and collapsed onto the sofa. With a clap, the enchanted screen flickered on.

The Viking Slaughter Channel. Of course.

“Don’t worry, love,” Thor boomed between laughs. “Had a word with Loki. He’s going to fix the hair thing.”

Sif leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “Actually, I’ve decided I don’t want it fixed.”

Thor barked at the screen. “Ha! Two mortals against one berserker. That’s a real man! What do you mean you don’t want it fixed? Of course you do. Love, fetch me a beer?”

Sif opened the icebox, grabbed a tankard, and hurled it at his head. He caught it without looking, still chuckling.

“Thanks, darling.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your arms work, don’t they? Use them.” She swept off to test darker liner.

A week later was goddess night. Frigg’s hall glowed with lanterns, cloaks shimmered, and Asgard’s women laughed loud enough to rattle Valhalla.

Sif entered in green silk, bald head gleaming, eyes sharp with emerald shadow.

Frigg gasped, fan snapping open. “By the Norns, look at you. Damn, girl.”

Freya raised a brow, smirk wicked as wine. “Thor notice yet?”

Sif scoffed. “If it isn’t ale, giants, or Loki, he doesn’t notice.”

“Tragic,” Freya purred. “The man’s already married—to his arms.”

Idunn nearly spilled her drink. “You look like a war-queen! If I shaved my head, I’d look like a plucked chicken. You? You look like you could order Odin around.”

Sif smirked into her cup. At least one of them had sense.

The chatter spiraled. Odin’s decrees, mortal blunders, Loki’s endless chaos. Then Freya leaned closer.

“Thor cornered him. Threatened to turn him into jam if he didn’t fix your hair. Loki ran crying to the dwarves. There’s a contest tomorrow—treasures for the gods. You’re the main attraction.”

Warmth flickered in Sif’s chest. Her idiot husband had defended her. She masked it with a sip of mead. “Finally.”

The hall buzzed the next day. Gods crammed benches, greedy for spectacle. Sif sat in front, arms crossed, jaw tight. This should have been about her. Instead, it was toys for men.

Loki strutted into the center. “For Odin!” he cried. “A spear that never misses!”

Odin twirled it, smug as a boy with a stick.

Sif’s lip curled. Lovely. Another sharp object. Maybe now he’ll stop blaming fate when he misses.

“For Freyr—a ship that folds into your pocket!”

Freyr squealed.

“Oh, adorable,” she thought. Every god needs a toy boat.

Next came a golden boar. The crowd gasped.

Sif arched a brow. Congratulations, Freyr. You own a gilded pig. Asgard’s salvation, clearly.

Then the hair.

“And for fair Sif,” Loki crooned, “locks more radiant than ever.”

The dwarves stepped forward reverently, laying the strands across her scalp. Gasps rang as they rooted, spilling like molten gold down her shoulders.

Sif lifted a lock. It felt real. Too real.

The applause shook the hall. Thor clapped like a child. “See, love? Fixed!”

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t want “fixed.” She wanted control.

She bent toward the dwarf. “Can I take it off?” she whispered.

He blinked. “Why would you—”

“That’s not the question. Can I?”

He shrugged. “Yes. Here’s how.”

Relief surged. She leaned back, golden curtain shimmering. Around her, the gods roared. Thor whooped. Odin tested his new spear. Freyr stroked his shiny pig.

They thought this was about them.

She touched the strands again. Yes, they were beautiful. Dangerous, even. The sort of beauty that could trap a woman in everyone else’s idea of her.

But she knew better now. Bald, she was stronger. With the hair, she could play their game. Both belonged to her.

Finally, the last treasure: a hammer, short-handled but immense. Thor’s eyes lit like a boy at Yule. “Perfect!” he bellowed. “I’ll call it Mjölnir!”

The hall erupted.

Sif sighed. At least it might keep him occupied.

Thor roared. Loki wheedled. The gods cheered themselves hoarse. None of it mattered.

Sif rose, golden hair glowing in the torchlight. Let them think she was restored. Let them worship their toys.

She brushed a strand behind her ear, smiling to herself. They had no idea.

She walked out of the hall, head high, and for once, the game was hers.