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Ayda was predictably fascinated by the crystal-powered hair clippers. Fig had picked them up, oh, she couldn’t remember where, in a fit of furious adolescent rebellion sometime soon after her horns started growing in. The clippers were heavy and sleek and silver and had way too many attachments for the patchy buzzcut she’d given herself at the time. Watching Ayda methodically lay out the different lengths of guards and then frown to herself as she reorders everything by some complex system of size and color, Fig is glad she’d held onto them over the years. In Ayda’s hands the clippers seem less like a past mistake and more like a tool—something Fig can take up again now without falling back on self-destructive habits. Fig sometimes feels like everything that passes through Ayda’s hands becomes a kind of arcane focus, a repository for all of Ayda’s calm attentiveness, an effect that Fig has tried and failed several times to capture in song. A spellbook, the clippers, even Fig herself, all enchanted objects resonating with Ayda’s power. She grins to herself. Sometimes resonating three or four times a night, if she’s lucky.
“So, how about it? Gonna give me the rockstar look?”
Ok, so Fig hasn’t given up spontaneous decisions entirely, but to be fair this one is going to look awesome, and if it doesn’t, it’s just hair.
“I am not entirely sure about this, Fig. Didn’t you keep the instruction manual? I should practice on something first. Perhaps on an unseen servant. Although unseen servants are shapeless as well as invisible. An oversight in the spell’s design. What if I substitute hair for the more conventional components of wood and string? Hair and bone? No, too close to necromancy, can’t risk raising the dead again...”
Fig is normally happy to listen to Ayda ramble like this—Ayda once shared that Fig is “good to think at,” which Fig still feels is the highest compliment—but she can also tell the difference between happy rambling and nervous rambling. She moves to place her hands on top of Ayda’s, stroking the backs of Ayda’s fingers with her own until they relax around the clippers and then sliding her hands up to loosely circle Ayda’s wrists.
“Hey, hey, it’s ok, you don’t have to invent a new spell to practice with. You’ve got me.” Fig grins. “We practice new things with each other all the time. This is just... a new type of experiment. And I really don’t care if you give me some wild new look. I can pull it off.”
Ayda smiles down at their linked hands. “I suppose... While the research suggests that symmetry is the prerequisite for physical beauty, you often find ways to make the strange and the asymmetrical look good.”
“Is that your way of saying you might cut off half my hair?” Fig teases.
“It is my way of saying that you are very beautiful.”
Fig’s throat catches on that emotion, and she has to stammer and wave Ayda forward into the bathroom until she’s recovered. Ayda picks up a different thread of the conversation she’s been reorganizing in her head while Fig drags a chair in to set up near the sink.
“I am worried partially because I my own hair is not made from the same type of biological matter, and the texture is so different.” Fig closes her eyes and leans back as Ayda gently begins unpicking Fig’s braid to separate out the layers. “The texture and also the scent. I have a catalogue of Fig Things, and these are among my favorites.”
“Aw, I’m a big fan of the campfire smell myself,” Fig leans dangerously far back in the chair to pat at Ayda’s flaming curls. “You’ll do great at this, I trust you. Just, you know,” Fig gestures vaguely around her own head, “buzz away.”
Ayda doesn’t “just buzz away,” but she does continue methodically separating the top of Fig’s hair from the rest, frowning to herself as she leans back to check on the exact angle and straightness of the line she’s making. Fig passes her hair bands and pins when instructed and basks in the attention. Finally, Ayda comes to some arrangement that satisfies her and reaches for the clippers.
Fig opens her mouth to resume flirting when Ayda powers on the clippers and rests them against the back of her neck and, and oh, oh, her first time with the clippers wasn’t like this. Fig lets out some embarrassing groaning sound that definitely wasn’t the witty banter she prepared as the buzz of the clippers against her skin sends a tantalizing signal up and down her spine and she goes limp in the chair.
“Agh, don’t move when I’m... I almost clipped your ear, Fig!”
“S’nice,” Fig answers eloquently. And it really is nice, when Ayda repositions her suddenly floppy body and goes back in for another pass. Like a massage, but with a rumbling bassline buzz that enters Fig’s bloodstream and relaxes muscles she didn’t even realize were tense. Ayda is narrating her process, but her words are lost in the vibrations and the quiet swish of hair falling, a gentle percussive beat that draws Fig further under whatever spell Ayda has cast. Fig’s entire world narrows to Ayda’s hands brushing against her jaw as she carefully maneuvers the clippers around her ears, the steady hum of the clippers, Ayda’s hand at the crown of her head tilting Fig at precise angles, the prickle of cold air against her temples as more hair falls away. Ayda makes a couple more passes before switching off the clippers and tilting Fig’s face up to check the evenness of her new style.
“Mmm, more,” Fig protests, but Ayda shakes her head.
“We can remove more hair if you wish, but I think it is best for you to grow accustomed to the new style first.“
Fine. Fig stands to check in the mirror while Ayda magics away the mess with a gesture and a word. It’s different, but not unrecognizable. Close cut along each side and in the back, where Fig can feel the soft bristling hairs at the nape of her neck, and around to where her remaining hair flops down over her horns. She tries pushing her hair back, and forward, pulling it up into a loose bun and in a long sweep to the side, testing out new styles. “This is going to feel so much lighter when I’m onstage. Looks awesome, too. Thanks, babe.”
“It’s acceptable, then? I thought about trying out some runic designs, but that seemed very advanced for a beginner.”
Fig catches Ayda’s eye in their reflection and winks. “Well, there’s still the most important test. Gotta be thorough.”
She spins Ayda around so her back is to the sink and pins Ayda there with a hand on either side of her hips. Fig leans close until she’s speaking the words against Ayda’s lips. “Go on, try out the new texture.”
They’re close enough that Fig can feel Ayda laugh as she moves her hands up to cup the back of Fig’s head. Ayda is still trying to speak, but Fig is very committed now to kissing her girlfriend senseless, so only select words get through. Something about the contrast of textures, and the continuity of Fig’s scent, and the design potential of the new style for hiding arcane secrets. Fig loves that Ayda never stops thinking, even now. The strange jumble of endearments and theories are as much part of Ayda’s affection as her hands gripping Fig’s shirt and jaw or the pleased noises Fig has learned to draw out.
“You approve, though?” Fig finally pulls back to ask in what she realizes is an unconscious echo of Ayda’s hairdressing worries.
Ayda runs a finger up the back of Fig’s spine, bunching up the fabric of her shirt before ending at the base of her newly shorn hairline. “Yes, I like it very much. It’s new, but it’s very... you. Punk and elegant and filled with hidden potential for new growth.”