Chapter 5: A Short Haircut, a Long Reflection

After much thought—and not a little hesitation—I finally decided to cut my hair short and switch to wearing shirts and pants. It was a purely practical decision. Long hair and flowing skirts might look graceful in paintings, but they were a nightmare for me in my daily-life. Tugged by the wind, caught by my own feet, weighed down by sweat—it wasn't just uncomfortable, it was inefficient.

I still wore Anna's original clothes when necessary, but day to day, shirts and pants were my new normal.

Of course, in a society like this, where gender roles are defined and enforced by a very firm social script, my appearance drew more than a few stares.

Was I afraid? A little. Did I care? Not enough to stop.

Maybe I'd become a trendsetter. Or maybe I'd be cast out by polite society and whispered about behind every curtain. Either way, I whispered a small prayer. God, please grant me patience and strength for the judgment I may face. Amen.

"Sain, is it really that strange for a woman to have short hair and wear pants here?" I asked casually, setting down my administration report on Mr. Wright's desk before joining her in the kitchen.

Sain was slicing vegetables, but she paused. "I told you before—it's not common. Why are you asking now?"

I leaned on the counter, watching her work. "Well, usually people just glare at me or mutter under their breath. But today, this middle-aged woman in the market alley actually patted my back and said, 'What a tough life you must be living. Here, take these—still good to eat,' and handed me a whole basket of apples."

Sain blinked. "Oh, that's where those come from", She looke towards the basket of apples on the table. "I thought you got another bonus from Mr. Wright today, enough to buy out the entire apple stand. Then you'd better walk home that way again tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Because," she said, smirking, "if you dress even more pitifully and look like a tragic mess, you might get free dessert next time."

"Are you suggesting I exploit my misery for handouts?"

"Exactly. You've been blessed with a unique aesthetic. Use it! You could be eating sweets every night."

I groaned and headed for the washroom to cool off.

Behind me, she called, "Don't be mad! I made pudding for dessert tonight! And with that apples, I can make some pie for tomorrow."

I peeked back with my sweetest, most exaggerated smile. "All is forgiven."

Since the haircut and wardrobe change, people's reactions had shifted significantly. At first, Sain was firmly against the idea—she muttered about safety, appearances, and how people could be cruel, especially the nobles.

But she also couldn't stand seeing me fidget with long hair or get tangled in layers of skirts. In the end, she helped me choose the least conspicuous fabric for trousers.

Mr. Wright, on the other hand, had been surprisingly supportive.

"I'm not like the old geezers around here," he'd said during lunch in the cafeteria. "If dressing like this makes you faster, more efficient, and happier, then what's the point of traditions? Honestly, you look cooler than the boys around here." He laughed so hard his whole chest shook.

I couldn't help but smile. Anna's androgynous face—angular and stoic—looked effortlessly cool, especially now. And with a slightly taller frame and a few extra pounds thanks to my post-transmigration appetite, I looked… healthy. Capable. Maybe even a little handsome.

If only I liked physical activity enough to bulk up—this body could've been intimidating in all the right ways.

"Anyway," Mr. Wright added, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "if anyone gives you trouble, just let me know. I'll put them back in their place."

That unexpected show of support eased tensions with the other workers. They adjusted quickly, especially once my productivity improved. I could climb, lift, and maneuver more easily than before. Function really did beat form.

And people began to smile again—not because I conformed, but because I worked hard and carried myself with a purpose.

Even if Sain occasionally overdid it.

"Ann, did you finish the lunch I packed?" Sain asked sweetly, dabbing a cloth to my sweaty forehead.

I nodded. "Yeah. Thanks. It was good."

The "lunch" had been leftover breakfast, repackaged to avoid waste. We were both frugal and couldn't bear to throw anything away.

"Good thing I brought it. The cafeteria menu looked too bland today," she said with a proud smile. "No one gave you a hard time, right?"

I laughed. "Nope. Everyone was fine."

Sain's eyes darted around suspiciously. I tugged her arm toward the exit.

"Sain, what are you doing?"

"Just checking for hostile coworkers," she said bluntly.

"They've been perfectly normal since Mr. Wright praised my work."

She leaned in, whispering, "I'm practicing my acting skills. Did it look real?"

"You looked three times weirder than usual," I muttered, pushing her gently out the door.

Every weekend, I headed to the library to read anything remotely related to time travel, spiritualism, alternate dimensions, or even fringe mysticism. It wasn't easy. The selection was limited, and the subject itself was seen as fringe or even heretical by some.

Worse, women weren't expected to be literate—especially commoners. So my new androgynous look helped deflect unwanted attention. Most assumed I was a scholarly young man with strange interests. Let them.

But I was frustrated by how little information I could find. Back home, I could've Googled any theory. I missed my phone with an ache that felt physical.

Still, I tried to find patterns. Logics. Rules. I reread the events of the novel as I remembered it, over and over again. In the story, there had been no servant named Annania. No mention of a helper during Riella's time in the Mollota residence, nor during her exile in the village.

That was what I'd loved most about the novel. Riella was fiercely independent. She carried herself forward, bruised and bloody, without asking anyone to save her.

But that kind of life—lonely, relentless—wasn't noble. It was hard. I knew that too well.

When I was twelve, my parents died in a plane crash.

At least, that's what I eventually learned. For a month, my older brother—barely out of college—kept the truth from me. He sent me to stay with Aunt Samantha, our mom's best friend, far from the city. He said our parents had extended work overseas. Bad signal. Flight delays. Excuses layered over lies.

Then, one afternoon, the news played a segment on missing passengers from the crash. I heard their names.

My parents were researchers—bright, kind people. I combed through online articles and watched the crash coverage obsessively. I scoured every report for confirmation.

And when it came, my world tilted.

Since then, I've feared flying. I refused to travel unless absolutely necessary. I stayed put. Grounded. Safe.

When I turned twenty-two, my brother moved abroad for work. I let him go.

And I stayed behind.

"Anna..."

Sain's voice pulled me out of the memory.

"Huh?" I blinked. My head ached.

"Do you even know what you just did?" she asked, arms crossed.

I stared at her blankly. "Uh…"

She stepped aside, revealing the pot on the stove.

"You were supposed to boil a handful of pasta. Instead, you dumped in the entire bag, let it overcook into a shapeless blob, and didn't even notice the fire went out from the water overflowing!"

I gasped. A gloopy mess sloshed in the pot like beige lava.

"I… I must've zoned out…"

Sain pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ann—just. What am I going to do with you?"

I grimaced and gave her the most pitiful look I could manage.

"ANNAAAAAAAAAAAA…"