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You’d dare to say that Crypto rejected physical touch. Resented it, even.
So it meant a lot when he approached you, hands shoved in his pockets, refusing to make eye contact. I need a haircut, he said, like it pained him to even admit such a thing. You didn’t know how to cut hair, but you agreed nonetheless.
Anything for Crypto.
“How do you want it?” You asked, admiring the scissors he had brought you. Real, sharp hair cutting scissors.
“Ah, just a trim, I suppose.” He responded quietly. “And shave the sides.”
You could do that. It was already pretty choppy to begin with, and part of you wondered if he had done it himself last time. Regardless, you thought he worked it well. Really, anything he styled was impressive. For being such a quiet man, his clothes spoke volumes. Leather and buckles. Bright neon colors mixed with textured blacks. He was always so withdrawn, but his clothing screamed from somewhere so deep within you were almost afraid to look. It was such a raw part of himself.
But look at you now, standing in front of the man, scissors in hand.
“Alrighty, don’t get mad at me if it ends up bad though.” You say, afraid to touch him.
“You won’t make it bad.” He says monotonously, and the pseudo-compliment leaves you feeling warm.
You hum to yourself, grabbing the comb he gave you and work on sectioning his hair off. When you touch his scalp, you feel like a bomb is going to detonate. He is too tense, clearly trying not to draw his shoulders to his ears. It was like petting a wolf. Who knew when he was going to bite?
But he never did. Even despite his discomfort, he sat there stationary, letting you hack away at his black hair. Even when you neared the base of his neck and you saw him vaguely prickle, he didn’t move.
“You have soft hair.” You say, words slipping through your lips before you can even stop them. He looks at you in the mirror. The pane of glass works as a buffer for his emotions. Crypto did not blush, but the corners of his eyes crinkled, like the comment amused him.
“Thanks.” He responded, voice clipped.
You try not to wallow in your embarrassment too long. “Really though, there hasn’t been a single knot. It feels good.” You comment. It felt like you were digging yourself a grave. Shut up, you hissed in your mind at yourself. Just stop talking. This is getting weird.
“I condition it.” He responded dryly and for a second you wonder if he’s joking or not. But his lips quirk into a small smile.
You both lapse into silence after that. You continue to cut his hair, following along the rough undercut he had previously. The entire time he watches you in the mirror, eyes trailing along your fingers and forearms. Nothing gets past him, even as you accidentally cut a piece too short. But he doesn’t say anything, only watching as the piece of hair floated to the ground like a feather.
Then you turn on the electric razor.
“Um, can I touch you?” You ask him, realizing you have to tilt his head to shave itit.
“You already are.” He comments, eyes going up to your hand, which is combing through his hair.
You sigh. “You’re sarcastic today.”
He looks pleased. The little stinker.
You’re acutely aware of where you touch him. Every touch burns and the contact on your palms remains even after you let go. You move his head and he willingly follows. Something far more sinister in you preens at how obedient he is, but when the thought crosses your mind, you shove it in the deep recesses of your mind. No time to unpack that now.
Rather, you admire his features. The smoothness of his skin. High cheekbones and dark circles. His dark hair. His slender neck. While you were sure he could see where your eyes went in the mirror, it didn’t stop you from trying to take in the moment.
Hugs were rare with him. No high fives. Nothing. Yet, here he was, neck exposed as you shaved down the sides of his head.
What did it mean...
You tried your hardest and your hardest was good enough. When you're done, you brush some of the hair off of him, adjusting his hair in the mirror. He investigates himself in the mirror before shrugging.
“It’s good enough.” He says.
“Good enough!? Crypto, do you even like it?” You say, almost insulted. It was more for dramatics than anything.
“Like I said, it’s good enough. Gomawo.” He says, suppressing a mischievous grin. So no, not good. At least he thanked you.
You roll your eyes but pat his shoulder as he passes past you. You weren’t a hairdresser, whatever.