There is a rule, number 5632B Subclause 29 of the ‘Code of Conduct and Vestimentary Regulations for Tarask Administrative Personnel and Affiliates’ to be exact, that forbids public servants and their direct entourage from wearing ‘any garment or accessory, either upon the body or the head, that contains one or multiple specimens of living or reanimated creature, be it animal, insectoid, humanoid or supernatural in nature’.
This particular rule is not one the administration is particularly fond of, because its inception shows a certain amount of weakness in the bureaucratic apparatus that, one assumes, said apparatus would rather forget. However, it remains on the books in spite of this, as a safeguard for future repetitions of the occurence that lays at its inception, a way, one understands, to make sure the administration will not be taken by surprise again.
It started, according to the oral history of the event, when on a trip to the nearby capital of Catilina, a young ingénue named Aurora Maximus came into contact with a ‘Weaver’. These Weavers were, at the time, people who adhered to a particular style of clothing and make-up and who, most strikingly, had a habit of weaving their hair into shapes. It has long been fashionable in the capital to wear your hair long and coil it into braids upon the head, and Weavers, it seems, would go the extra step and create shapes such as birds, or bows, or animal ears, particularly in an effort to make themselves stand out within the rather colourful nightlife of Catilina.
Miss Maximus saw the style and, so the story goes, was inspired. The Weaver style had at this point been popular in Catilina for a few decades, particularly among those fairly young in years, and was seen as typical teenage fare by its citizens. When transplanted to the bureaucratic center that is Vestinex, however, the trend became something else altogether. Theories abound as to the reasons of this, but the main one speculates that the style formed a rare creative outlet that was quickly seized by a frankly bored population.
Vestinex, being the sensible city that creates and processes almost all of the paperwork for the entire empire, has a fairly strict ruleset, you see, indicated primarily by the ‘Code of Conduct and Vestimentary Regulations for Tarask Administrative Personnel and Affiliates’, and a few other tomes. These specify, for example, uniforms for its people, based mostly on status and role within the government, that apply to both the public servants themselves and to their partners, children and other members of the household. The Code furthermore prescribes rules of conduct befitting a government emissary of the Tarask Empire, and both administrative workers and their retinue are expected to hold up the honour of their status as a government official by adhering to these rules. This includes refraining from alcohol, wild dancing, playing loud music or putting on lewd spectacles such as romantic theatre. Considering the entirety of Vestinex is populated with public servants, it stands to reason that such forms of low entertainment are rarely, if ever, organised within the city limits. Vestinex is, after all, a very sensible and highly regulated society, built and maintained at maximum efficiency so as to keep the gears of the empire running smoothly.
However, for al its fervour in regulating activities and clothing, Vestinex had, at this point in time, no regulations for hair. The oversight seems strange, but can perhaps be explained out of a demand for cultural sensitivity. For while most of the culturally Tarask citizens crop their hair short out of a sense of practicality, the dwarven and elven workers attracted by the administration tend to enjoy some more whimsical styles, choosing to braid their hair and beards and perhaps even embellish them with beads or rings. So it was, perhaps, that the Vestinex government elected to keep hair unregulated, opting instead to allow a certain amount of cultural individuality while individually advising those public servants that veered off too far into the realms of the fanciful.
Either way, it appears Vestinex was not quite ready, regulatory-wise, for what would follow when miss Maximus showed up to a bi-weekly Young Person’s Mingling Event, wearing her hair fashioned into the shape of a swan. She was, of course, quietly judged by the many chaperones at the event, who deemed such a fashion silly but otherwise harmless, the drolls of a teenage girl and a whim she would hopefully soon grow out of. Such leniency was, sadly, mistaken, because miss Maximus started a trend. One that was governed not by any kind of regulatory restraint but instead by the very humanoid need to ‘one-up’ others.
The next Young Person’s Mingling Event, for instance, contained quite a lot more of these silly hairstyles. There were wings, more swans, one boy with beautifully long black hair had managed a serviceable crow. The chaperones, this time, did choose to reprimand their wards, but they could not reasonably punish them, for they were not breaking any rules.
It is possibly at this point of realization that things truly lifted off. Other family members got involved. Supplies of hair oils and ribbons, filler material and bendable latticework were imported from the capital. Swans turned into eagles, crows into elaborate depictions of cats. Soon, not only teenagers, but also their parents and house servants spent hours braiding, oiling and shaping their hair into ever more elaborate displays.
Of course, not everyone was pleased with this turn of events. Requests were sent by disturbed citizens, reports were written up, guidelines suggested. Committees gathered, but the wheels of law do not turn fast.
In the mean time, fashion continued to be made.
A teenage girl named Lithid Taxandria started a small publication in which she drew and wrote down the best examples of the style, giving tips and tutorials on the side. It is through this publication that we know that on one December Networking Event, the Shadow Minister for the Department of Roadworks showed up wowing everyone by wearing, fastened to his head and worked into his hair, a small latticework ball filled with fireflies.
It was beautiful.
It was inspiring.
It was the beginning of the end.
Not to be outdone by a mere Shadow Minister, others started fashioning moving spectacles. Butterflies were employed, glittering beetles found themselves trapped in necklaces. The Field Executive for the Cabinet of Educational Writings Pertaining Woodcutting was spotted wearing a bracelet that held a shoal of small but sadly rather short-lived glittering fish. One unnamed person went so far as to keep two live, white mice in lacework tunnels throughout their elaborate pompadour.
The trend came to a head one fateful July evening, at the Second Yearly Celebration for the Resurrection of the Nuncial Library, when the wife of the Secretary for Provisions to the Eastern Border wore a beautiful, shimmering, oversized earring containing a small winged creature that glowed with a soft orange light. It is unknown whether or not she was aware of the exact nature of the creature within this jewel. And to be fair, it is not known to this day exactly what said truly creature was. Theories abound that it was an elemental, or perhaps a small demonoid figure, summoned inside a cage that, it appears, shattered some time throughout the night.
What we do know, is what happened next. The Nuncial Library burned down (again), with many very important records lost. Twenty five people died, including the Head of the Department for Trade in Bricks and Sheep, and the very popular Undersecretary for Traffic and Town Signage. Eye witness accounts vary, with some speaking of a fireball, a rift in the fabric of reality or just a lightning strike. One witness, who suffered heavy burns, swears they saw a giant hulking figure covered in scales descend upon the networking event, thrashing furniture and flinging dignitaries around.
Either way, the trend became unfashionable overnight. Teenagers, once they were done mourning, cut their hair or went back to simple loose styles. Their parents quietly put away the supplies. Butterflies were released back into the outdoors.
Eight months and 24 days later, rule 5632B Subclause 29 was finalized and written into the Code.
(One of the cities in my DnD campaign is a Forbidden Palace meets Bartleby the Scrivener, with like a pinch of Dangerous Liaisons. It’s great.)
Unrealistic expectations 