Immanuel could remember in perfect detail the first time he noticed the angels. He was a young boy, spending yet another sermon sitting idly and glancing around with boredom. There wasn’t much to look at; the walls of the windowless room were bare white plaster, and the pews were made of cold aluminum. From the front of the temple, the preacher was delivering a fiery sermon the specifics of which were lost on Immanuel. He was old enough to understand the preacher’s words but still too young to grasp their significance, instead the sermon merely rolled off him as he idly shifted his eyes towards the top of the room. Then he saw them, painted on the gently arched ceiling, looking down on him. The angels, with their long golden hair, soft faces, and flowing white robes froze beneath Immanuel’s gaze. Enraptured by their beauty, Immanuel couldn’t help but feel drawn to them. As he stared, the angels’ halos seemed to glow as if they were made of light, and Immanuel felt himself consumed by a deep sense of longing to join them.

Today, as he got ready for his coming-of-age, it was hard to deny he looked like he belonged on that ceiling. His hair was the same golden color as the murals, grown long, as was tradition for boys in his temple, and his features and voice were soft. In fact, Immanuel had garnered somewhat of a reputation for his angelic looks among the congregation. That would all change later today, though, when the preacher cut off his hair to signal his transformation into a man. It was a tradition every boy in his temple had to go through; most looked forward to it. As he combed his hair, Immanuel found it hard to muster up that same level of enthusiasm. He finished by tying his hair into a ponytail, then forced a smile into the mirror.

Immanuel walked out of the dormitory bathroom to find the other boys crowded in the hall, waiting for him. Together they set out across the compound, marching to the temple, where they were to undergo their coming-of-age. As they walked, the hot desert sun beat down on them and empty plains sloped into craggy peaks in the distance. His head down, Immanuel walked in silence, kicking a rock between his feet. Suddenly, another boy approached him. Immanuel had never quite fit in with the other boys, preferring to play by himself in the dirt instead of wrestling or chasing girls around. Still, he knew how to act as expected just enough that the light teasing that he frequently received never escalated into outright bullying.

“Hey, angel boy.” the boy said, elbowing Immanuel. “Ready to finally get rid of all this hair?”

Immanuel nearly tripped over his rock in surprise. He took a second to reorient himself before feigning laughter and mumbling a reply:

“Yeah, for sure. It’s such a pain to take care of.”

The boy seemed unconvinced that Immanuel, who had just taken half an hour longer than the other boys to get ready, loathed to look after his hair, but played along anyway.

“Yeah, and I bet you’re tired of looking so girly. I know I am, and I don’t have it half as bad as you do.”

Quietly, Immanuel replied. “Ha, you don’t know the half of it.”

He heard some of the other boys snickering behind him. Clearly, his performance was not as convincing as usual today. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to do much better.

“Well, I’ll … uh … see you on the other side.” said the other boy, before leaving to resume chatting with his friends.

Thankful that the conversation was over, Immanuel put his head back down and kept walking in silence.

After a long walk under the oppressive sun, the group of boys finally arrived at the temple. As they walked inside, Immanuel’s gaze instinctively turned towards the […] sight of the angels on the ceiling. Immediately, that horrible sense of longing came flooding back. More than anything, he felt like he belonged up there. Even though the angels were paintings, Immanuel felt closer to them than he did to the other boys. As he reminisced on all the times that he’d feigned embarrassment over being compared to them, Immanuel knew he couldn’t let his hair get cut today. He wasn’t a boy, he definitely wasn’t a man, he was an angel, and he had to let the congregation know.

The group of boys walked to the front of the room, past pews full of what seemed to be everyone in the congregation. The ceremony began, and one by one the boys of the temple stepped up to become men. One by one, they looked on proudly as the preacher tossed their severed ponytails to the side. As Immanuel’s turn inched ever closer, he felt himself shaking with fear. He had always been a well-behaved child, and this would be his first time going against the authority of the temple. He knew what happened to those who disobeyed, of course. Beatings were common in his congregation and were often followed by social ostracism in the case of more severe infractions. Still, the image of the angels overhead steeled his resolve enough to keep him moving forward. He felt confident the congregation would be happy to have an angel among them.

Eventually Immanuel’s turn came. As his name was called, he gingerly stepped up to the front of the chapel as the preacher began speaking. Sweat rolled down his back, the desert heat proved inescapable even inside the temple. He completed the ceremony as usual, until the time came to cut his hair. As the preacher grabbed the knife, Immanuel looked out over the crowd and saw them watching eagerly. He briefly paused to try to steady his nerves before shouting “Wait!”

The preacher stopped.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

His voice shaking, Immanuel replied “You can’t cut my hair.”

“And why would that be?” asked the preacher, incredulously.

“I’m not a man. I’m an angel. Angels have long hair. You can’t cut it.”

Immanuel looked out over the crowd again. Their reaction was not what he had expected. Expressions of shock mixed with those of disgust and horror. The whole temple stood in stunned silence. After a few seconds, the preacher placed his hand on Immanuel’s shoulder and pushed him off to the side.

Through his teeth, he snapped “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m an angel, I had to … had to let them know.” replied Immanuel.

The preacher slapped Immanuel.

“No, you aren’t. Who put that ridiculous idea in your head?”

“Nobody, I just … I have to be.”

“That’s sacrilege. Do you have wings, or a halo? Do you?”

“No … but …”

Immanuel fought back tears. Upon noticing this, the preacher began to berate him even more fiercely. Immanuel could no longer understand the words he was saying, only the raw force of their delivery. As the preacher’s verbal abuse battered him, the image of the congregation’s faces flashed over and over in his mind. Staring at the ground, Immanuel’s cheeks were flushed red, his eyes watery. He felt as if years full of shame and regret had passed between his confession and the present.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” snapped the preacher.

As Immanuel complied, he again noticed the image of the angels sticking out from behind the preacher’s head. Only this time, that familiar sense of longing was absent, replaced by burning embarrassment. How could he have presumed himself to be one of them? They were calm, elegant, and mature, and he was a sniveling child who could barely contain his own tears. Desperate to recoup any sense of dignity, Immanuel seized on the one option he saw left to him.

“I’m sorry. You can cut my hair.”

The preacher stopped his tirade, switching immediately to a compassionate tone.

“There we go. See, was that so hard?”

Immanuel stepped back up to the front of the temple, the preacher’s hand gently held on this back. The crowd looked on warily as he meekly apologized for the interruption. As the ceremony resumed, Immanuel felt a soft tug as the preacher grabbed hold of his ponytail. Then, there was downward pressure when the knife made contact. As the knife cut through his golden hair, Immanuel told himself that this was for the best. The congregation needed him, after all, and how could he play his part in the community if he was too busy playing angel? The last strand of hair broke, and Immanuel found himself filled with a momentary sense of nobility over his sacrifice. The preacher tossed his severed hair to the side, a round of applause rolled through the crowd, and Immanuel stepped aside to let the next boy take his turn.

The ceremony let out, and the boys streamed out of the temple, excitedly talking amongst themselves. Immanuel was the last one out of the temple, exiting alone. As he did so, he stared blankly off into the distance, where the sun was now setting. Quietly, he followed the stream of boys out back to the dormitories, the desert heat fading into the dusk. As he walked, he started blankly at the ground beneath his feet. A cool breeze brushed against Immanuel’s now-exposed neck, his eye twitching in response. In bed that night, Immanuel cried for the last time in his life.