As the silky neck apron fits tight about you neck the Barber smiles and asked if you were happy with this color of hair?
You smile and nod your head to signify a yes.
"Oh well, you would have made a fine roan!" says the Barber as he begins his work.
Quietly you sit there as the workings begins. The word roan though sticks in your mind as the Barber works on. Roan, that's a word for the color of a type of horse hair color and not the usual red head light humans have?
As the Barber works on you feel a wierd uforia feeling come over you. Time seems to be blending with your past memories and thoughts of wild joy and free actions.
Somewhere back in you memory you seem to remember the Barber and his attendant helping you undress and then redress but in a scanty bunch of black leather straps.
The strange wonderment which touches you every morning you scramble to stand once again has you trying to think of what is so strange, yet so neat all at once. You have always been a sandy brown haired person, yet those words of offering to be a roan still makes one think!
"Time will tell!" you say to tourself as the stable groom nears with the morning's ration of hay and grain.