On a Pincushion by Mary de Morgan

Many years ago there lived a young Queen who was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Her skin was white and smooth as ivory, and her eyes bright as stars. But her greatest beauty was her hair. It was neither black nor gold, but exactly halfway between, just the colour of a dead beech-leaf It was so long that it trailed behind her on the ground, and so thick that it took three maids to plait and arrange it every morning. Every day it was scented and washed by the court hairdresser, who examined it carefully to see that it was not growing thinner or falling off. The Queen's husband, the King, was as proud of it as his wife, and gave her all sorts of lovely jewellery with which to dress it -- diamond pins and golden combs -- and by his special command the court gardener always kept the best flowers for the Queen to place in her hair.

And not only the King and Queen, but all the courtiers and court ladies -- indeed, everyone in the country -- praised and admired this beautiful hair; and although some of the court ladies were rather jealous of it, yet all agreed that it would be a real national misfortune if any harm came to it.