Difference between revisions of "Logs:Hair Don'ts"

Late afternoon in the candidate dorms is peppered with low, murmured conversations and the occasional outburst of laughter, although the tone is muted somewhat for the continued absense of one of their own. Keysi's bunk, in her absence, has been transformed into a shrine of sorts: flowers, both dried and fresh alike, have been laid on her linens, along with what is growing to a mountain of tokens--plushies, sweets and candies, even a pair of slippers, gifts all anticipating her return. But for others, life goes on. Laine, whose bunk neighbours the offering-strewn cot of Keysi's, is sitting on her bed with her head between her knees, a pair of scissors in one hand and a cracked-but-serviceable handmirror in the other, and a growing layer of hair is settling on the floor between her feet as she snip, snip, snips.

The bunk Farideh shares with a young girl of white-blonde curls is on the quiet side; the latter is dozing fitfully on top and the former is on her stomach, chin propped in her fists, while she watches Laine from afar. Cutting hair must be fascinating indeed, because her eyes are bright and attentive, following every snip and strand of hair that falls to its end on the floor. One raucous snore from her bunkmate prompts Farideh to 'tsk' and growl under her breath, heaving upright, and then, to stand. Anyone studying the laundress-turned-candidate could see from the way she's continuing to stare at the tanner what are plan is: she oh-so-casually walks right up, hands clasped behind her back. "Can you cut mine, next?" Cool, simple, but anticipating.

Still folded in two, the tanner sets her scissors and mirror aside on her comforter for now and tugs her hands through her hair, pulling short sections through her fingers until she's satisfied by some mysterious criteria. So her answer to Edyis is a muffled, "what, you got magic hair that doesn't grow?" When she sits up, that freshly-trimmed shock of dark hair is bristling every which way, but looks surprisingly consistent in length. Still ruffling with one hand, Laine's bitten-lip expression of concentration curls into a crooked smile up at Farideh as she approaches. "How's the back look?" (Disheveled). "Never cut someone else's hair." Despite those words, Laine pats the bed next to her, an open invitation to the laundress, scooping up the scissors. Snip snip. "So. I'll do it, but you have to promise that if it's awful, you won't hate me."

"It looks the same," which sounds like a good quality, coming from Farideh's lips. Her eyes flick to Edyis, brow furrowing briefly. "Laine cuts her own hair, but I haven't cut mine in a long, long time. It needs a trim, and if she's willing--" Her brow smooths out and she smiles sunnily at the tanner. "It's just a trim. I doubt you can mess that up. My mother used to be meticulous about haircuts. Once a month, she'd say, to keep it healthy, and maybe she was right." She sounds so confident about her decision to let the tanner chop off inches, and bounces onto the bed next to Laine, combing her long, curly hair back over her shoulders with her fingers.

"I only trim out the damage." Edyis answers brushing a hand aganst the waist lenght braid she usually wears. "Wouldn't look right with short hair." Shifting a woven strip of snake teeth and leather to hold the space on her book.

The young woman who walks in is a bit older than most of the other candidates, and evidently she's quite a new one. Sparrow lugs the standard bundle of sheets, blankets, and suchlike that every new candidate receives. If there's any uncertainty in her as she steps into the room, she pushes it away as she closes the door with her foot and sets about finding a bunk.

Looking pleased, the short-haired candidate gives one last ruffle through her unkempt mane, then sweeps at her trimmings on the floor with one socked foot, which earns her one hairy sock more than it does a neat pile of hair. So she solves the problem by pulling both her feet up and under her, sitting on her heels as Farideh seats herself on the bottom bunk. Thick, dark brows arch over Laine's grey eyes as she points with her scissors at Edyis. "You heard her. She agreed. I'm not," and this is more to Farideh's curly hair as Laine positions herself behind the other girl, "To be held accountable. How much do you want taken off?" The tanner cranes her neck, then, at the new arrival, and nudges at Farideh with her elbow--but there's a shorter roster than usual, so there are many unoccupied bunks to choose from.

Submitting to the tanner's ministrations doesn't seem to wear too much on Farideh's conscience, rather the way she sits calmly, awaiting service, it's like she's used to having others do for her. It's the elbowing that has her glancing to the door and the newcomer, her lips pursing in thoughtfulness. "New girl. One more person to keep Yesia off a dragon. Should we say hello?" This all to the tanner and Edyis, though the latter gives her own pull of the candidate's gaze. "Never? What about if you Impress? I think they make you-- just a few inches off would be fine, or, do you think I could pull off your do?" She's grinning when she says it; not that Laine could see.

Edyis marks the entry of the newcomer and shrugs before falling back into her book. "To each their own." Slipping into her book, her attention so focused now she pays no mind.

Sparrow surveys the room, finally finding a lower bunk to load her belongings onto. There's not so many of these left, so she takes one of the few remaining. "Yesia?" she echoes, looking back curiously as she dusts off her hands and turns around to face the others, leaning against the bunks. "Who's that?"

"Yesia," Laine groans, finger-combing through Farideh's hair then smoothing it all down with one flat palm. The candidates stares intently at the thick mass of brown tresses, so she doesn't glance over at Sparrow, but she pitches her voice to carry. "She's the worst. She's--" the tanner begins, then bites back whatever she was going to say. "You'll figure out which one she is pretty quick. You're under Brecken, there," Laine points again with her scissors, at the bunk above Sparrow's, before actually applying them to Farideh's hair, tentative at first, then with more zest, "-- he snores."

"Yesia," Farideh, too, begins her words for Sparrow with, "is a vile creature that was spawned from some ill-begotten place and then sent here to torment us. Don't let her know your insecurities. Don't show affection for anything. Faranth help you if you cry." She makes a disgruntled sound and crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes drifing closed on repose, while the tanner preps and then applies scissors to her hair. "Don't they all? Olrina, my bunkmate, talks in her sleep. Giggles too. Starts going off about some guy named Zason."

At the news that her bunkmate snores, Sparrow looks a bit doubtfully at the bed. "I don't suppose there's anywhere better to bed down?" she inquires hopefully. Sniffing, she adds: "And as far as she's concerned, I'm hardly going to let any adolescent bullies get the best of me."

Across the room, from where she sits on her own bunk - bottom - and is fitfully working at a tear in her riding jacket, Faryn looks up to examine the newcomer. She gives her an up-and-down, clearly judging the latest of the crop with an unfathomable gaze. Eventually, she seems to decide the harper is at least satisfactory, certainly better than most of the people who don't have bunkmates, and she points. "That one there," three down from her, "is free, if you want it. Or the one here," directly above, "but Yesia will tell you it smells like stables and shit." She's clearly not amused by this, and leaves it at that, for Sparrow to make her own decision.

Brushing a stray ringlet off her lap, Laine spares only cursory glance up from her trimming work, but she tacks onto the tail end of Faryn's words, "That first is with Kennon. Painfully shy. Burps a lot. Faryn's cool. Yesia is not that bad," Laine adds, but it's with a mistrustful wrinkle of her nose. "But. Yeah. Don't, like, talk to her or anything." Snip, snip, Laine's scissors are busily working away, until all the sudden there's a very little, very quiet, "oops." And a brown ringlet, much longer than the first, tumbles onto Laine's bedspread.

It's been a day. Gauging from the grim look on Zadkiel's face, one can only presume the nature of the day. The hunter-turned-Candidate strides into the barracks - fresh from a bath by the looks of it. His hair is slicked back with something - oil, perhaps, or something similar - and a towel is around his waist, leaving his scarred upper body exposed. The positions of the other Candidates within the barracks are noted with a quick flick of his gaze, but his intentions are purely to get back to his bunk. That bunk is at the front - a point from which all arrivals and departures can be spotted and from which one can make a quick escape if need be. Once there, he starts to dig through one of the trunks, a low grunt escaping him.

"You can try and talk some sense into Yesia. She's rude and a very, very mean girl, and she's not even rich or beautiful or related to anyone important," Farideh huffs, peeking an eye open to look towards Faryn. She's listening, while Laine works, and is careful not to move an inch; the ideal clientele. "Steer clear of her, avoid eye contact, but she'll still probably tell you--" Except, she's caught sight of the bare-chested Zadkiel, and her face is suddenly quite red, her eyes fluttering closed. Do not look, do not look - her mantra is written on her face, with those flushed cheeks and squeezed-shut eyes; until the quiet oops makes them pop open again. "Oops? Oops what? What happened?"

Zadkiel walks in and Sparrow glances up uninterestedly. Blinks. Blinks twice. Looks back away and... well, her skin is dusky enough that it doesn't usually show much of a blush, but there's just a hint of it as she clears her throat. All of her attention's suddenly on Faryn. Gathering up her belongings, she hoists them unceremoniously onto the bunk that evidently semlls of stables. "Excellent," she says. "Home smelled of llamas. I'm sure horses can't be worse. It'll lull me to sleep."

The 'oops' catches her attention, too, and she looks around to see what might have caused it. Wincing, she steps around to see...

"Well," she says, her tone careful. "It's just one little lock. Do you usually have your hair loose?"

"I prefer not to talk to her at all. It's not about why she's rude or who she knows to entitle her to that. It's just that it makes me want to hit her in the face." It's a matter-of-fact delivery from the herder, who sticks her needle into the jacket with a little more fervor, this time. "She's lucky, too." Zadkiel's entrance earns a lean forward from the herder, who peeks around her bunk without moving anything from her lap, and then surveys the room. "Oh, come on," is Faryn's response, spotting Farideh's expression when she turns to give the other girl a pointed look. "Can you come into the barracks with a shirt on next time? Please? We were having a conversation." Laine's oops? Missed, over the sound of raging hormones.

Nope. No oops. What oops? But Laine's stopped trimming. She misses Zadkiel's shirtless entrance, busy stuffing that glaringly conspicuous lock of hair under a fold in her bedspread and patting it with a too-casual hand, and that flurry of sudden movement might belie her too-quick, unconvincing, "What? Nothing. It's fine." Sparrow gets a narrow-eyed look as the tanner runs her rough fingers through Farideh's hair, gently separating and smoothing. Surveying the damage. She captures her lower lip in her teeth, then offers frankly after a silent moment of deliberation, "I clipped it shorter than a few inches. Not," wince, "by much. It'll be fine." And she picks up the scissors again, snaps them in the air.

The hair-cutting and conversation are peripherally noted with a periodic glance askance. For his part, though, Zadkiel remains silent. He fishes out an outfit of sorts with a distasteful wrinkle of his nose. 'Reachian garb, all of it, and it's clear that the Igenite still does not approve. At least the weather's warm enough that layers can be avoided. Changing is done without shame - or, rather, would be; it's just unfortunate that Faryn's words come when he's in the midst of undoing the towel. It's held in place, but only just barely. One eyebrow hitches skyward and a vaguely melodic hum-grunt slips from his throat. "I was unaware that your tongues were attached to your eyes." Deadpan, that, and thickly accented - of course. "I will bear that in mind." And since a shirt was the only thing mentioned, then the dropping of the towel so he can pull on wherhide trousers should not be an issue. A sidelong look is angled to Laine and Farideh. A bit of leaning ensues. Then: "Shorter?" Half-question; mostly observation. Followed by a thoughtful hnnnh of a sound.

"What? Yes I wear my hair loose. What did you do, Laine?" Farideh reaches up her hands to pat at her head, trying to feel the damage. "How much? Will I have any hair left?" Her voice is only slightly hysterical, her eyes cutting to the side, as if to see the scissors the tanner is brandishing in the air. "I need a mirror. Let me see a mirror. Didn't you just have one here?" She starts patting down the bedding, completely distracted by her situation and thereby, not distracted by Zadkiel's nakedness and Faryn's annoyance with it.

"Oh no, you look lovely. Really, it's fine." Sparrow glances to Laine slightly apologetically and adds, really trying to be helpful: "It'll get lost in the rest of your hair."

She turns back to the bunk, climbing onto the upper level and brushing her hands over the mattress -- presumably to dust it -- before stretching her fresh sheets over it. "Maybe she's just putting on a brave face. Maybe she's actually terrified. Or trying to make herself out to be big and powerful when she's just like the rest of us. She could be the sort who always thinks someone has to be the leader, so it might as well be her."

It's an interesting tableau, the reversal of Faryn glaring at Zadkiel's display while the rest of the room is distracted by Farideh's hair. She snorts and her eyebrows shoot towards her hairline, and now there is a bit of color on the tips of her ears, though the look she's giving him is enough to suggest it's not really embarrassment causing it. "Well, aren't you humble," she says, more statement than question, and turns her focus to her jacket. She lands two more stitches into it, poking herself one of them in her hasty movements, and stops to suck her finger, her eyes focusing in on Farideh's panic. She tilts her head to the side. "You look fine. It's..jeez, actually it's not bad." Which is maybe not the same as good but is a step up from ruined, your hair is ruined! and seems to only be given because she's still evaluating. "She's right. It'll get lost in what's left of your hair." There's very careful wording put into play there, maybe enough to deliberately stir Farideh's panic, especially a a mirror has yet to be offered. "Well, if she Impresses that queen, then she'll have proved it to all of us, won't she? Hey, what's your name?"

That mirror appears, materializing from somewhere in the mass of wrinkled sheets and blankets, and Laine pushes it into Farideh's hand. "It's not that bad. Might be cute if you cut it all that short." The tanner sounds a little dubious, but she combs out that shortened snippet of hair and holds it up, easier to see when Farideh holds up the mirror. "I can keep trimming, if you--" but Laine has the presence of mind to cut that offer short, instead leaning back on her cot on propped elbows. "What's left?" It's a lifted-brows look of laughing exasperation that Laine casts over her shoulder at Faryn. "C'mon, Faryn. It's not like I hacked it all off. What about you, Zadkiel?" The tanner waves her scissors carelessly. "You want a trim? Ask Farideh for a testimonial."

On goes an elaborately painted wherhide vest - and the ensemble is mostly complete. Zadkiel dons a brightly colored sash and sits on the edge of his bed, while he fishes something out of a pouch hanging from the sash. Then comes the braiding of his hair, which is likely an obscene length for anyone to have, let alone him. It's a slow, meticulous process of separating and weaving. "Breathe, Farideh," he intones. "Trust her." This time, he doesn't bother to look over. Instead: "The shorter hair suits you." Matter-of-fact. And, sure, it could be seen as echoing what the others have said, but- still. He cuts a look at Faryn, one that's indifferent to her commentary. He's clothed now, isn't he? Nothing is overtly on display, which might help alleviate matters. Or not. The hunter cares not. He's braiding. And that offer? It's met with a flat: "No." That glare that comes with it? Yes, that glare is fully weighted with the promise of terrible things if she tries.

Everyone's got two cents! And Farideh acknowledges all of them, her hazel eyes flitting from face to face, her brow furrowing further with each new comment. It's to Zadkiel that she finally, after staring unblinkingly in the hand mirror for an obscene amount of time, nods. "Cut it all off. It looks dumb with one chunk of it missing," Farideh says finally, her voice colored by an odd tinge of desperation. "Yesia will have something else to make fun of if I have lop-sided hair-- just do it." She tosses aside the mirror and covers her face with her hand, fully prepared for the big snip.

"It's hair," Sparrow says -- though she sympathizes, being more-than-curly herself. Shape is important. "It'll grow back. And you might like it better this way."

To the question, she adds: "Oh, I was rude, I'm sorry: Sparrow. Pleasure to meet you all." She hops back down from the bunk, brushing herself off after finishing making up her bed.

It's probably the anguish that gets Faryn to look a bit sympathetic. Certainly it's not Laine's defense of her hair-styling chops - hah. "Nah, you didn't," she says. "It does look fine, Farideh, don't worry abut it." A glance to Zadkiel, whose plaiting is a curious thing to watch, and one undertaken with much more care than Faryn does her own, and she adds, like it's a bonus, "It's a lot less work. I was thinking about cutting mine, even." Sparrow's name earns a tip of the head, but she's already been introduced and so carries on, "We can't all have Zadkiel's luxurious mane, can we?"

"Way less work," Laine chimes, although her own short, mussed hair may speak to the amount of effort she puts in to maintaining her own coiffure. The tanner produces her scissors and sits upright, although she leans forward to murmur a low word or two in Farideh's ear before she sets to evening out the length of brown curls. She's deliberate and attentive, this time: no oops. But it absorbs her attention, and she falls silent as she works. All in all, she doesn't actually do a terrible job.

You sense: Her tone is sincere and apologetic when she says, "Sorry, Farideh, honest."

The deed is done. The ends are folded up and wrapped in the length of leather he'd retrieved earlier. That done, Zadkiel rises again, though there's a look askance for Faryn when she speaks. That look is an appraising one, paired with a vague grunt that's probably more snort than grunt. Interpret it freely. A passing look is given to the rest, with lingering attention on either Farideh or on the work Laine's doing. Another grunt. "There is work to be done," is his final declaration and the Igenite departs.

One hand becomes two and both become fists, pressed against her eyes, while the scissors go snip, snip, snip. Even Laine's words of reassurance, accompanied by those from everyone else, don't make an impression. Indeed, Farideh might stay like this forever! Yesia would be so happy. "Are you done?" is all she says, finally, to the tanner, though it's partly muffled by her wrists.

"It's PRETTY," Sparrow groans, peering around the other girl's head. "It's more than okay. It's lovely." She straightens and rubs her hands together, adding: "All right. I'll be back. I have a few more things to bring in."

Faryn finally moves closer to the other two girls, waiting until Laine has finished clipping. "Come on, open your eyes," she says, trying to be helpful. "Look in your mirror. You look great. You'll surprise yourself in the mirror for a while but after that..." she shrugs. "Either way, it's done. And somehow you survived, even."

Laine finishes with a flourish, and sets those perfidious scissors away and out of arm's length where they won't cause any more trouble. The tanner fluffs at Farideh's hair for a moment, then finally releases the former laundress, urging, "look at it! It looks really good. I think I like it better this way." There's a last flick at Farideh's tresses as Laine scoots back on her cot, punching her pillow into shape and propping it up against the bedhead so she can sit, cross-legged and leaning back, looking self-satisfied. Her work here is done.

The deed is done, and Faryn's coaxing works, sort of. It's enough to have Farideh pick up the mirror and stare at herself in it, turning her head from side to side, slowly. Her expression is utterly blank. Not even Laine's encouraging words can soothe her broken pride. She pops up from the bunk, tossing the mirror down again, and despite the momentarily look of hysteria on her face, says in a cool voice, "I need to go." And promptly-- leaves. Farideh has left the building.