Because he was taller than us, broader than us, and stronger by far, they came with blades to cut him down.
Sometimes they came for all of us, sometimes for him alone.
But always he would rise, and we would rise with him, until they came again.
Once, they took him from us; plucked him from our midst and dragged him away. We were distraught, broken. We rose, but with heavy heart, leaderless, causeless and lost.
And then we heard he had returned. Of course we were sceptical at first. How could he do such a thing? But one sighting led to another, and then to many, and then, miraculously, he was among us, growing everyday, taller and stronger, until he towered over us again.
In time another rose. Not so broad, or so strong, but taller, sleeker, and more dynamic. The tiger to the bear some said, but I knew otherwise; they were brothers under the skin.
So when the blades came again, they stood apart but united, and we stood with them, and were cut down.
I tell you this now, looking through a haze of the fallen, I see him. He too is cut down, like the rest of us. I cannot see his brother, I have fallen the wrong way. But I know where he will lie: just over the crest, exactly where he took his stand.
We hear of a place where all grow tall and broad like these two. Stronger even, some say. Where they stand so thick and tight together that sometimes the blades are beaten back, and have to retreat and come again.
We don't have this strength, and we are not many, but we have our brothers, and they lead us still.
We are down, but we are not broken, and we will rise again.
The tale of two errant hairs on the otherwise balding scalp of a bearded man, as told by a baby-fine scalp hair.