Chapter Text
It was common enough for the young boys of Kaer Morhen to detest the pack grooming practices the older witchers were so fond of. They were antsy little things, always moving about and causing trouble, and the idea of having to sit still for a while and allowing an older pack member to dote on them by combing, cleaning, and trimming them up was not their idea of a nice night. So when Vesemir spent a majority of Geralt’s childhood bribing the boy to even let him near with a pair of scissors, he’d figured it was something the pup would grow out of.
He was wrong.
After Geralt’s trials Vesemir, much to Barmin’s dismay, allowed him to start growing his hair like he’d always wanted. At first Geralt was overjoyed by this. Growing it out meant he could escape the routine haircuts for longer than before. Vesemir never understood his opposition to it, but the noise was just so loud, and the touching would get too much with it, and he didn’t care for it short anyhow. But then it started growing in white.
According to Vesemir and the mages this seemed to be his body’s response to the stresses of the trials twice over. His hair would likely continue to grow in white now. He tried to pretend like this didn’t phase him, but the bright red curls were the only thing he had left of his mother. He had to strain now to remember her face, her voice. She was fading, and now so too was his mark as her son.
He doubled down on his efforts to avoid cutting his hair. Geralt couldn’t bear to trim it as it grew, ridding himself of the remaining coloring. So it continued to grow. The two toned locks now tumbled down his back and he kept it back with a long braid that Eskel frequently did for him. It was heavy and often irritated him, but that was a price he was willing to pay to keep the last reminder of her.
“Geralt,” Eskel mumbled one night as they were squeezed together on one of the small beds in their room. Remus, Gweld, and Frank had already long fallen asleep, Eskel having waited to speak until he knew it was just the two of them.
Geralt hummed in response. Typical.
“I think it’s time.”
Geralt furrowed his brow. “Time for what, Esk?” His chest rumbled a bit as Eskel’s fingers passed once more through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. He felt as if he could melt into a puddle by now.
Eskel sighed. “The hair, Geralt.”
Geralt’s eyes flew open, his body tensing instantly. Eskel rubbed his back with his other hand.
“I know, Wolf. I know it reminds you of her, and I know you don’t like getting it cut, but it’s not safe to keep it like this.”
“There’s plenty of witchers with long hair, Eskel.” Geralt argued. Eskel cocked an eyebrow at him.
“That’s true enough, but those are witchers with more patience than your own. You won’t properly tie it back, and I won’t be with you out on the Path.” He huffed a small laugh at Geralt’s pout. “You know I’m right.”
Geralt dropped his gaze. “I don’t want to lose her, Esk,” he whispered.
Eskel pulled him in closer, Geralt’s head pressed against his chest.
“You know, in the village where I’m from, we actually had a tradition I think you may like. It was custom for children to wear their hair long until they came of age, and then they’d cut it on their name day. Usually their parents would take a lock and keep it in an ornamental pouch as a keepsake. I could make you one. That way you can keep her with you.” Geralt swallowed thickly, tightening his grasp on Eskel’s shirt.
“Did Vesemir put you up to this?” He asked, attempting a teasing tone. It didn’t come out as he’d intended, but Eskel caught it anyway, giving a small chuckle.
“He’s tried a few times. This is all me, though. I don’t want you to get hurt out there. Please, Geralt.” Geralt hummed again.
Silence hung in the air for a long while.
“Ok. I’ll do it.”
Eskel let out a sigh of relief.
A few days later, Geralt stood outside Vesemir’s room, staring intently at the door.
He nearly walked away multiple times, but he couldn’t shake the concerned tone of Eskel’s voice echoing around in his head. With a deep breath, he reached out and knocked on the door.
Vesemir had raised his brow in confusion when he saw Geralt standing there. “You and Eskel didn’t do anything that I’m going to have to deal with, did you?” he asked as he shuffled the boy in.
Geralt shook his head, not meeting his eye.
“What’s this about then?”
Geralt frowned intently at the floor, pushing his hand into his pocket to thumb over the pouch Eskel had made for him.
Please, Geralt, his brain provided once again. Geralt huffed.
“I’m ready now,” he forced out. “Can you?”
Vesemir’s face instantly softened. “Of course, lad.”
He pulled the chair out from his desk, motioning for Geralt to sit as he prepared his things. Geralt placed his discarded shirt neatly on the desk, sitting down in the chair and rubbing his thumb over the embroidered pattern on the pouch once again.
“I- I need a lock of the red part, if I could?” he stuttered as Vesemir draped a towel over his bare shoulders. Geralt showed him the little pouch.
“Is that Eskel’s work?” he asked.
Geralt nodded. “Said it was a tradition in his village.”
Vesemir hummed and began running the comb through Geralt’s hair, the boy’s shoulders already relaxing with the touch.
“I think that’s a fine idea, pup.”
He continued working through the long waves until, finally, it was time. “Here, pass me the bag.”
Geralt did as he asked, tensing up immediately. Vesemir took a lock of hair, snipping off the red end and tucking it into the pouch. He didn’t miss the way Geralt flinched at the noise.
Geralt felt the fabric of the pouch being pressed into his hand, but couldn’t open his eyes.
“I know you struggle with this Geralt, and I won’t lie to you, this will probably be worse than you remember now that your senses are enhanced. I’ll work as quickly as I can.”
Vesemir was right, it was much worse.
How such a small instrument could be so unbearably loud was beyond him, and the touches felt sharper as the noise grew stronger. Fortunately, Vesemir was true to his word and finished quite soon.
“Alright Geralt, it’s over now.” He crouched next to the chair, Geralt’s eyes still pressed tightly together. He took Geralt’s face in his hands, holding strongly, not painfully but enough to ground the boy. Slowly, Geralt opened his eyes, letting out a small whimper. Vesemir pushed their foreheads together.
“I’m proud of you, son.”
He helped Geralt up to his feet, pulling him into a tight embrace. Geralt let out a shaky breath. The arms around him eased the itch beneath his skin, but not enough.
Vesemir pulled away, retrieving a mirror and passing it over to him.
His breath hitched in his throat when he saw himself. All that remained was stark white hair, now falling to his shoulders. He had expected to not recognize the face looking back at him, but he just looked… like himself . A small relieved smile crept over Geralt’s face. “Thank you.”
Vesemir smiled, taking the mirror back. “Run along now, pup. You and Eskel should hit the hot springs before bed tonight, rinse the hair off you.” Geralt nodded, turning out of the room.
No, Geralt never grew out of his aversion to haircuts, but Vesemir would do his best to help ease the anxiety. And at the very least, he’d make the rest of the grooming rituals enjoyable.