Imagine Spot Conlon Discovering You Cut Your Hair

                                    

                                          
            "My beautiful long-haired angel." That's what Spot likes to call you when you let your hair down. It was so long that it reached the backs of your calves. He'd run his hands through your long (h/c) tresses, telling you how beautiful you are.
            You shake your head, still not used to how light it felt. Those beautiful tresses are long gone. Now your hair barely covers your ears. You tell yourself that it was worth the price they paid you for your hair. You were almost starving, living on the streets. You could save some of this money for a rainy day.
            The streets are flooded with golden evening light. You are almost to Brooklyn. Spot is taking you out to Coney Island tonight. Your stomach flutters as you wonder if he'll hate your hair. Maybe he wouldn't like you without it.
            'Oh! That's him!' He's walking toward you, looking down at the sidewalk. You smile widely, smoothing your skirt and slowing as you meet him. He glances at you as you meet him... and keeps walking. Not even a hello? Is he that upset about your hair?
            "Spot!" you cry, turning to watch his retreating back. "Spot Conlon, are you really not even going to say hello to me?"
            At the sound of your voice, he freezes. Slowly, he turns around. "(Y/N)?" He hadn't even recognized you.
            You stand there, smiling nervously. "Hi, Spot."
            He walks quickly toward you. "(Y/N), what happened? Your... your hair...!"
            "I... sold it, Spot," you admit, staring at the ground. 
            "But why?" he asks. You look up and see shock written on his face.
            "They gave me five dollars, Spot. Five dollars is a lot of money."
            "I know. I know. It's just..."
            "It's just that my long hair was what made me beautiful, and now the only thing that made me even the tiniest bit attractive is gone? Yeah, I know." You felt all of your insecurities rushing in. 
            "No!" he exclaims. He looks you over with new eyes. Despite the haircut, you're still there, the girl he loves. "No, that ain't right at all. You're beautiful, (Y/N)."
            "But... my hair. You loved my long hair," you say mournfully.
            "No, (Y/N)," he replies. "I didn't love your long hair. I liked your long hair. And I'm sure I'll come to like your short hair. But I loved you, and I still love you. A haircut can't change that."
            You throw your arms around him, placing your head on his shoulder. Spot is not a touchy-feely kind of person, but he'll do anything for you. He pulls you in close, kissing your forehead. Long hair or short hair, it's you he loves.