Leznupar, or the inverted Rapunzel by Agathe Chave-Lucas

In the story, it is the prince that gets the princess out of the tower, but stories get things wrong: I was not raised inside a tower.

I was raised to be free, in the fields of Provence and the snows of the Alps, hair brown and red like a trail behind me, long; long, down to my hips and then to my knees. I would run, and it would snag on brambles, briars, flowers, shining like an open flame that did not burn. My mother used to braid it and tell me it was my strength. Leznupar, as long as you have your hair nothing can happen to you. I glowed under her words, and I felt powerful.

One day my prince arrived—a pool of gold for eyes and soul. I fell for him. He said sweet words in a sweet voice, and I thought he was charming.

But one day he cut my hair, snip, snip, one moment there, one moment gone. He caught the strands in outstretched hands, greedy for the fire in them. Without my hair, it was easy to lock me in a tower. I was new and weak, only human. And once inside my tower, it was easy to say I’d always been there, easy to frame himself as the savior, easy to frame my mother as the witch.

But remember: I was not raised inside a tower.