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Of course Astra had been delighted to help. She’s a gem, a radiant star from the highest shelves of the heavens, and one of the protocol’s signature morale boosters alongside Tayane herself. She’d never tell Tayane no, because she’s a good friend, and this is the sort of thing good friends do.
And she’d never tell Tayane no, because Efia knows damn well very few other people in this protocol can come close to handling her hair with the care it needs.
It’s like an unspoken truth; a silent solidarity written in the air that ties them together, sewn between the threads of the atmosphere. It’s the sort of unity that doesn’t need to be said, because they see it when they see each other. They see it in one another, in every inch of beautiful brown skin, and every strand of captivating, curly hair.
So, of course, Efia would never tell her no.
In fact, she had been delighted to have Raze over in her room, and help her prepare for a night on the town with the engineer everyone knew she swooned for. They weren’t exactly good at hiding it, but very few people had the balls to break the two apart. You certainly wouldn’t find Astra trying to do so; she’s an avid supporter of the two nerdy lovebirds exchanging their blushful smiles during meals in the mess hall, and resting their heads on each other when they sit in the lounge. She thinks it’s the cutest thing she’s seen in a long time, and she’ll be damned if she sees anything put a blockade between them.
She gets it. She doesn’t need words to get it — they mean a lot to each other. This date means a lot to them. This evening means a lot to Tayane, and Efia is going to make sure she looks absolutely stunning for it.
That’s why Raze is seated on the floor, a lush, lavender pillow-cushion being the one thing that separates her bottom from thin carpeting. That’s why Astra is seated on the bed behind her, leaned over for her hands to lovingly run through Raze’s strands of chocolate-brown hair. It’s a wonderful feeling, having someone else go through the turmoil and trouble of taming the wild coils that grew out of her head. Tayane’s been doing her own hair for years now, and honestly? The pure pleasure of someone else’s hands running oils and gels through streams of curls and parted pathways of her scalp was a sensation she’d nearly forgotten.
If she closes her eyes long enough to relish in it, she could almost forget she’s here, and not back in Bahia.
She could almost forget that she’s here, and not seated on the living room floor of her childhood home.
The one of hardwood, that she’s slipped on a number of times when her socks made her feet glide out from under her faster than she could stop them. The one where, when her mother did her hair, Tayane would sit on the floor, on whatever throw pillow was first grabbed off the couch, legs criss-crossed and apple-sauced, brown eyes expectantly looking back to her beloved mamãe as she watched her prepare.
Watched her fetch conditioner bottles and gel containers in a variety of colors; Some burgundy and brown like fine wines and chocolates, others in olive greens and turquoise blues. Most of them smell as sweet as can be, but it’s a sweetness she could never quite describe. Nothing like sugary goods on the shelves of a candy store. Nothing quite like the ethereal scent of flower fields under summer sun and bouquets in a florist’s shop.
Well— Sometimes, a few of the hair products resembled floral fragrances vaguely, maybe? Not enough to really say they were quite such though. And others had hints of coconut in them, dashes of citrus here and there, whatever. Nothing that she could exactly pin into one signature smell other than the all-too-familiar aroma of hair products altogether. Not that it mattered to little Raze anyways.
Little Raze was more worried about how quickly it’d be done so she could return to her usual business; Roaming the city in search of friends and fun and feeding the vira-lata caramelos that wandered about the streets with their pleading puppy eyes for any meals a generous soul might offer them, if they couldn’t find any while turning trash cans over. Raze was a frequent friend of theirs, who had plenty of snacks for the canines hidden in her pockets everytime they passed. The longer this took, the more daylight she lost, and the hungrier they got – so the quicker the process went, the better.
Only thing is, she was pretty bad at making the process go quickly.
She moved. A lot. Wiggled to and fro in her seat like she could just burst at the seams. Turned her head this way, and that way, and up, and down, and reached a hand back into her hair to scratch a pesky little itch at her roots, to which her mother, rattail comb in hand, would quickly swat that hand back down. Then came the need for bathroom breaks, for snack breaks, for water breaks because everyone knows sitting still while someone else does all the work on your hair is a painful and grueling process, of course. So it could only continue after she had a full stomach and a duralex cup of water seated over the crochet linen laid across the living room table.
And then came the real challenge of haircare: the tears.
Because Tayane swore when her mother did her hair, sometimes it felt like the curls were being pulled from the scalp itself like she might just go bald. The detangling process is the worst, and even if her hair is wet during it, the tension of yanked locs and an increasingly irritated scalp burning and itching under each touch was awful. She was always known to be tender-headed.
She tried hard to choke the wails down too, tried her hardest to bury them deep in her chest, in her throat, in her stomach, so that they suffocate in on themselves and never see the light of day — but it always happened.
She always had too much.
Her mother always pulled at her hair some kind of way, one particular pull that hurt more than the others, that was the straw that broke the camel's back; and then it was sniffles, and hands wiping at her eyes, and an emergency 10 minute break needed so Tayane could cry her poor eyes out while her mother apologized over and over. Of course the pain was never on purpose, but those tight curls and intricate coils had a mind of their own. Detangling their twists and tight, matted grips on each other was an absolute nightmare. Not too dissimilar to unweaving an intertwined pair of headphone wires, but a gazillion times that amount — and with wires 1/9 of the size.
It was never a simple process growing up.
It was always a battle. Always a teary, time-consuming feat with scoldings from her mom when she still moved far too much in her seat. It was hard enough getting through every section of hair without all the squirming.
There was just so much hair on that head, and it was so thick, so strong, so tedious to get a comb through. Some days, Raze thought about just chopping it all off to save herself the trouble. Hair days always translated to the worst days of her life.
But today doesn’t quite feel like that, and she isn’t entirely sure why.
Like, sure, it’s been years since she was a tender-headed little twerp sneaking lunch leftovers to the beloved dogs that trailed her city streets, and sure, she’s a lot more mature now, a lot more patient now, a lot more pain-tolerant now (hell, she endures gunfights for a living), but even still, it’s…
Well, for starters, it’s a hell of a lot more therapeutic than she expected it to be.
Again, sure, whatever, having someone else do your hair felt nice, and she’d grown out of her tangle-induced crying fits by the time she’d hit middle school, but there’s something more to it now. Something else about it, even if it reminds her so much of home, and so much of the hair days in her youth.
Even if those maybe-coconut, vaguely-floral, and somewhat-citrus-y smells of the leave-in conditioner and detangling spray and moisturizing gel make her feel like she never left that living room.
Even if this view, seeing the world from the floor as she sits on her bottom while Astra does all the styling, was the exact parallel she once had back then; Spotting the undersides of shelves she normally wouldn’t see, and switching between crossing her legs, or sitting up on her knees, or hugging them right up to her chest because all she could do was wait until the work was done.
Something about it all makes her feel like she is little Raze, like she is still that troublesome little tyke and never stopped being such, but in that same breath, something about it is so…
Different.
Good-different? Or bad-different?
With how relaxed and at-ease she feels, it must be a good-different, right? But then why does it still feel so… Weird?
So foreign, so…
She doesn’t have the words to describe it, really.
Because it’s… Relaxing. Sort-of relaxing. An acquired relaxing sensation. It’s a certain type of relaxing that she grew into with time and age; The last time she remembers crying whilst getting her hair done was back when she was still young enough to believe monsters lived under her bed, and imaginary friends were far from imaginary.
But now, feeling fingers massage refreshing products of mousse-consistency into every crevice of her scalp felt divine . And the smoothness, the fluidity that Astra’s lavender tangle-teasing brush glided through every kinky strand on her head felt so natural, so calming.
So perfect.
It didn’t feel perfect before.
Even when Tayane reached the age where haircare didn’t hurt, and was nothing to cry over, and she’d accepted that moving as little as possible sped the process up significantly — it still felt like a chore. Hair days were no different from needing to take out the trash, or clean the house, or even sit and do hours of studying and homework.
It was a bother.
It was a hassle, and her mother fussed and fussed everytime. Fussed about how thick all that hair was, how long it took to unweave it all so she could comb through it without matted areas and clots of tangles interrupting her work.
And honestly? It still felt like a chore now, even when Tayane did her own hair.
Getting oil and residue of hair goo all over her hands, that sticky feeling settling into her fingers and palms until she could finally wash it all out. Trying to part her hair to begin with into its necessary sections before she began to twist strands between her digits into their braids, even when her shoulders and neck hurt from hours of prep it took to do it all — By the time she’s begun to style her mane, she’s gone through a rigorous process to wash it and get it ready for its next new look.
So, yeah. Tayane hates hair days. Or has hated hair days. She’s not really hating this one.
And maybe it’s because Astra’s the one doing it for her? Saves Tayane most of the trouble? And yeah, that’s cool, and she’s still more than thankful Astra’s agreed to do it, but even when her mother was still the one to care for all the curls on her head, Tayane had still dreaded days like this. So clearly, the comfort of someone else being responsible for it wasn’t the main relief here.
And clearly, it was something she was going to drive herself a little crazy trying to pinpoint. Who the hell cares as long as her hair still gets done in the end?
She has a date tonight! A date with the cutest, prettiest, smartest, sweetest girl in the universe! And she’s going to look fucking awesome for it, because Astra would never let her leave this room looking anything less than fucking awesome!
Tayane had been so nervous leading up to this point too.
She had so many butterflies in her stomach a few days ago, when it had just been her and Killjoy in the latter’s lab. When they were alone, and had their hands held in each other’s palms, fingers intertwined, beautiful eyes locked into each other’s gazes while their cheeks turned all shades of pink and red. When she had first asked Klara out, first proposed the idea for this date, and Killjoy, without a moment’s hesitation, blurted out a yes.
And then kissed her.
They held hands. They agreed to a date. They fucking kissed. On the lips.
And tonight, they’re going to go out, and see the world, and share laughs with the starlit night sky, and hold hands everywhere they go, and dance under the illuminating lights of a club with music bustling around their ears.
And Raze is going to look beautiful doing it, because Astra is doing her hair.
The hair that Tayane hates. The hair that she has fights with every time it needs to be done. The hair her mother always fussed over.
And somehow, she realizes, even when Klara should be her priority, her mind can’t begin to focus on her because it’s worried about her hair. The very same hair Efia is running a brush through right this second.
And speaking of Efia, the woman had been more than talkative and bursting with energy when they’d begun, but now, Raze is noticing a distinct lack of gossip, chatter, or even humming from her. She couldn’t tell you when exactly Astra had gone quiet, but she certainly didn’t like the silence that had formed.
“... Fi?” Raze’s eyes look off towards her right shoulder; a way of trying to look behind her, without actually looking behind her, because she knows better than to move too much while Astra is hard at work.
Yet the second she’s addressed, Astra stops anyway, and Raze can feel the slide of that brush come to a gentle halt in her curls.
“Mm?” Efia leans in just enough to catch sight of Raze’s caramel eyes, and the second their gazes meet, Astra smiles.
Raze does too, but it’s small, and hardly reaches her eyes. “Sorry, just– Like, I– missed hearing your voice.” She shrugs, and still, she manages that little smile on her face. “Just making sure you’re good.”
To which Astra smacks her lips and waves a dismissive hand. “Chale, I’m fine! I’m fine, thank you, I’m just focusing on all this.” And she makes her, 'all this,’ known as she carefully combs a few fingers through Raze’s hair.
At the very mention, Raze huffs a sigh. “‘S the worst, I know… Sorry for making you deal with this mess.” The apology feels like the right thing to say, because Tayane knows damn well how awful it is to have to dominate every unruly curl on her head. And here she was, asking her good friend to do it for her— for not even a dime! Not even a penny! Just purely out of the goodness of her heart;
And that’s just the sort of thing Astra would do, because Astra is a good friend, and this is the sort of thing good friends do.
If they know how to, of course.
Jett’s a good friend.
Jett cooks for Raze all the time, and offers to split snacks everyday. They have shows they watch together. They paint their nails with Killjoy over episodes of emotional dramas that have the whole arsenal of TV tropes — love triangles, miscommunications, childhood friends-to-lovers, rivals-to-lovers, hell, friends-to-lovers-to-rivals-to-lovers— all of them! Enough that she thought she was sick to her stomach of them, but when she watches a show with Klara and Sunwoo, it’s somehow that much more interesting. And hell, if it is bad, they can laugh at it together.
Breach’s a good friend.
They get into trouble together. They tinker together. She helps mend his arms and he helps mend her spirit after their missions. They watch futbol games on TV. They go back and forth about all the tattoos they want to get someday, adding to the ones already beautifully drawn into their bodies’ canvases. They’ve shared more secrets than she can count. He was one of the first people to know about her crush on Killjoy, because he is a good friend, and she could trust her good friend with something as important to her as that.
But she would not trust neither Jett nor Breach with touching a strand of hair on her head, because this is not the sort of thing they know how to handle.
Jett and Breach have straight hair; strands that fall flat like graceful waterfalls. Combs and brushes move through them with ease. Their hair drapes over their shoulders as if it were silk curtains over glass windows before a pink sunset. It’s picturesque. It’s gorgeous. And nothing mesmerizes Raze more than watching them take their hair out of their respective bun and braid. She eyes them in awe every time, like it’s Rapunzel letting her endless mane in dazzling blonde down for her dashing prince to climb up it.
Their hair is absolutely beautiful, but it is nothing like the texture of Raze’s.
Raze’s hair sits in curls and coils and tangles and turmoils; like roots of plants suffocating each other, like dead, dry stems tousled around one another into a tumbleweed; You could stick little items and objects in there and lose them in all the madness. She knows because she’s tried— numerous times before. When Little Raze got bored, her mind could think to do some of the silliest things, so yes, she had stuck pencils, pens, and other little things into her curls before, because she could, and nobody stopped her. And sure, it’s a little funny, but… Is that really all her hair is meant to be?
A little thing to laugh about, because every curly strand is strong enough to grip a little pencil in it?
A little thing to fight with, because every curly strand tangles around one another and becomes a hell of a hassle to handle every time she has to wash it?
It’s a chore.
It’s a chore her mother always fussed over. It’s a chore she has always fussed over. It’s a chore she is surprised Astra hasn’t fussed over.
And maybe Astra doesn’t do that, because Astra is a good friend, and doesn’t want to talk Raze’s ear off complaining about her hair when Raze is fully aware already of how exhausting it is to deal with it.
In fact, to Raze’s surprise, Astra does quite the opposite.
“Tata, girl, I’m not dealing with a mess,” And Raze can hear the disdain in her voice, as if Astra herself has taken personal offense from such a remark, “How can you call all this beautiful hair a mess?”
Beautiful isn’t exactly the word Raze would use to describe it. There’s a number of words she can think of when it comes to the muddle growing out of her head, but beautiful is far from one of them. Though every word she can think of falls along the lines of a mess, and she’s not dumb enough to say anything that’ll set Astra off any further.
Not intentionally, at least.
All Raze can really do is offer another rise and fall of her shoulders. “I mean, like, it’s just a lot. You know? It takes forever to get my hair done, and doing it’s a nightmare, and—”
Astra sucks her teeth, and when Raze meets her gaze, she’s wearing a far less pleased expression than before. Tayane can’t tell if it’s more offended disbelief or annoyance or what, but it’s definitely far from anything good.
“A nightmare?” Astra asks, brows raised and dull eyes sullied with clear dissatisfaction. “Chale– Tayane. What are you going ‘round for, calling your crown a nightmare? What makes you think you can? Who taught you that, huh?”
And maybe anyone else would have taken her tone to be too confrontational, abrasive, even, but Tayane knows better; Efia simply can’t believe her ears, can’t imagine why Tayane would have such a distaste for her own hair.
And Tayane can’t imagine why she wouldn’t.
“‘Cos, like… Iunno! It sucks doing it. It takes too long to wash all this, and braid it, you know?” Does she know? Because Tayane is suddenly feeling like, for the first time in her life, maybe she’s the one who’s not seeing something clearly here.
But this is just how her hair has always been, right? This is how hair days, until today, have always gone.
“Even when my mamãe did my hair, it just… Fi, Iunno, like, really, Iunno how to say it.” And Raze can’t help but laugh, not because it’s funny, but because this change in atmosphere and sudden struggle for words is hard to cope with. “It always took forever ‘cos there’s just so much hair, and it’s so annoying trying to take care of it all.”
By now, Astra’s set her brush aside, arms folded, a deflated sigh huffing from her chest. “... Girl, much love to you and Mama Raze, of course, but it sounds to me, she didn’t really teach you how to love your hair.”
The very thought is a little silly to Raze, truthfully. What is there to love about it?
It’s too dense. It’s too curly. It’s too messy.
It takes too long to do. It hurts if you pull at the scalp too much while it’s being braided or twisted. What upside could there possibly be? Raze could love and admire such plentiful curls on anyone else — Hell, Astra always looked lovely with them — but being the owner of such a mane was just trouble.
To Raze, it was just trouble.
It doesn’t seem that way to Astra, who has now returned her hands to gently pulling Raze’s hair back behind her head; she had offered to wash Raze’s hair earlier, and now that it was dry and detangled, had made a plan clear to tie it all back into a lovely bun of bursting coils and kinks. As she does this, she begins to speak, her voice soft and gentle compared to the conviction she’d spoken with just a few moments ago.
“Chale,” She sighs, “All this hair, all these beautiful curls… You ought to love all this, for real. I mean it, for real, Tata.”
“But it’s too thick—”
“It’s healthy,” Astra corrects. “It’s full of life.”
“It takes forever to braid it…” Raze sighs, her own voice falling flatter, falling to a mumble reserved for the very few times she wasn’t as excited as can be.
“Don’t it?” Astra chuckles, shaking her head, “But you know, it’s your crown. You got to show it some love. You got to keep all the bling, all the jewels and gold on it polished and pretty. You’ve got to help it shine. It’s so beautiful, it’s something you must be proud of.”
She feels Astra finish tying her hair back in place. Whatever scrunchie or hair tie she’s used sits snugly at the back of her head. Raze doesn’t say a word yet, not even a thank you, because her mind is still processing through the last few words spoken.
She’d never really thought of her hair as her crown. She’s never really wanted to show it any love. It’s always been something to annoy her, to frustrate her.
It’s never really been something to flaunt.
It’s never been something to be proud of.
Astra’s a very intelligent, and very wise woman. She’s all-too-aware of the gears turning in Raze’s head, of the emotions quietly being processed in her mind, so she doesn’t dare interrupt. Not even when she’s moved down onto the floor beside Raze, a lilac edge brush in her hand as she begins to use gel to swirl down laid edges around the rim of Tayane’s face. Twirled strands and gelled, smooth baby hairs frame her forehead and cheeks, making the barrier where her skin ends and her crown begins.
It is only after Efia has finished that she dares to say another word, leaving Raze even deeper in thought:
“Don’t be so hateful to your beauty, Tayane.”
And the very words curl their way around Tayane’s mind, wrapping every neuron and every thought in deep contemplation. It’s a lesson that goes against everything she’s known about her hair, and right now, there’s only one thing she knows for sure;
She’ll certainly be asking Astra to help her with something like this again. Especially if it means a lesson in love, with a free hair appointment to boot.