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“So how short do you want it?”
“Um. I don’t know… just do what you think looks good.”
“You want me to do whatever I want?” Soul asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Erm. Actually…” Crona seems to think better of that imperative. “M-Maybe just a few inches? I don’t want it in my eyes…”
With a thoughtful hum, Soul combs a hand through his companion’s messy, pink hair - an action that has Crona ducking their chin in an effort to hide their blushing reflection from the mirror. “I’ll trim your bangs, for sure, but you could rock an undercut.”
“Undercut…?” Crona echoes.
“Like I shave the bottom layer of your hair - it’ll still be longer on top, but it won’t feel as heavy.”
“It’ll look cute!” Maka chimes in from across the room, head perked up from her reading.
“Oh, ok!” Crona nods with enthusiasm, spurred by Maka’s approval.
“Cool. I’ll get the razor.”
Crona nods again in acknowledgement and watches Soul exit the room from their peripheral. As soon as he’s gone, their posture visibly deflates.
“Nervous?” Maka inquires.
Another tentative nod. “I’ve never had my hair cut before… not by anyone else, I mean. If it got in my way I had to cut it myself…”
Incredulous, Maka gapes, “Medusa never cut your hair?”
They shake their head. “She… she said I had to be independent - that I’d be smarter and stronger if I learned to do everything myself, so…” they trail off, expression going listless for a moment.
There’s a flash of dark anger in Maka’s countenance, but she takes a deep breath to reel that anger in. Medusa was dead, and getting pissed off at a dead woman wouldn’t do Crona any good. Instead, she softens her tone and says, “Well, you can trust Soul. I let him trim my hair all the time, and he always does a good job.”
“Your hair is really pretty…” Crona concedes. Her words seem to take the edge off their nerves, and they straighten up in their chair.
Just as they regain their confidence, Soul lumbers into the room, razor raised heavenword like some kind of holy artifact. “Ready to go bald?”
“EEP!” Crona covers their hair with their hands and rockets out of the seat.
“ SOUL !” Maka likewise jumps to her feet, book in hand. “You asshole!”
“Joking! I’m joking- don’t Maka chop me! Don’t-! OW!”
“Say sorry to Crona!”
Soul attempts to parry his meister with the unplugged razor, but to no avail. “OW! Stop-! Okay! Jeez! Sorry, Crona! It was a joke! OW! I’M JOKING!”
Crona glares at him from around the doorframe, peering with mistrust.
“I’m not gonna shave you bald,” Soul insists, rubbing his battered head with a wince. “Maka would kill me.”
“You promise?”
“Promise.”
With their wary gaze still trained on Soul, Crona inches their way out from behind the wall and skulks back to the kitchen chair. It takes a nod of reassurance from Maka, who still looms behind Soul with a menacing aura, for them to seat themself upon it.
“I’m watching you,” Maka warns.
“Yeah, yeah. Get out of my salon and go back to your book, nerd.” Soul waves her off.
She points two fingers at her eyeballs, then turns her wrist so that they’re pointed at him before walking with an exaggerated strut to the couch.
"Let's get this over with before Miss Fun Police over there blows a gasket," Soul grumbles. He ignores the glare shot his way.
Crona swallows, then squares out their shoulders.
"I'm gonna comb your hair first," Soul explains, "then I'll clip part of it out of the way."
A small nod signals Crona's consent.
Seconds later they feel a palm on the side of their head, guiding it, while several fine plastic teeth slide through their hair. The comb snags in some places, but Soul expertly teases any knots out with minimal tugging - it's obvious he's used to doing this.
Does he brush Maka's hair?
The thought makes Crona's stomach twist in an uncomfortable way - though they're unsure why.
She did say he trims it…
They picture her, sitting in the same chair, head bowed while Soul runs his fingers through her hair in the same, gentle way he was doing now.
Their stomach knots tighter.
Soul was good to Maka; he was a great partner. Sure the two of them bickered and fought often, but there were rarely hard feelings and the fighting was forgiven and forgotten within minutes. They were always close, orbiting each other, pestering, picking, lounging. Soul complained of Maka's alleged boneyness, yet she seemed to be his favorite pillow.
I can't hate him.
They fit perfectly together - they were each other's world.
And they don't need anyone else.
It's a bitter thing to swallow, but swallow Crona does, banishing the unwanted thought to the pit of their gut where it squirms around like a black snake.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Crona focuses on the teeth of the comb. On the pleasant, steady gliding of fingers through hair.
A few, precious seconds of comfort. A few seconds of something they can pretend is affection.
And then it's gone.
"I'm gonna turn the razor on - it's gonna be loud," Soul warns.
"Okay," Crona answers, voice hollow.
As promised, the buzz of the machine is a roar in Crona's ears. The sound makes them want to flinch, but they resist; even so, their heart begins to race.
"It's gonna feel weird - try not to move."
Crona stiffens.
The blade swoops closer.
The guard touches their skin, and they want to scream.
Instead they clench their jaw and squeeze their eyes shut.
Go away, go away, go away, go away.
A chant. A prayer.
Soul's voice cuts in. "I'm trying to be quick," he promises.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Their skin is crawling.
They want to scratch it off.
They keep their hands clasped tightly in their lap, fingers jailing one another.
Click.
The incessant buzz ceases, leaving deafening silence in its wake.
It's over?
Hot breath tickles the nape of their neck.
"What are you doing?!" Crona squeaks.
"I'm blowing the hair off - relax."
"O-Oh." They slump in their seat, both relieved and embarrassed.
"What'd you think I was doing?" Soul's voice is incredulent.
"I don't know!!!" Crona ducks their chin to their chest once again, face burning pink.
"C'mon, you can't really think I'd be that much of a creep."
"I dunno… you're a pretty big weirdo," Maka teases.
"I'm not weird - you're weird!"
"You're the one harassing poor Crona," she counters.
"I’m not!"
Listening to their banter, Crona begins to slowly relax, their bewilderment fading.
Glancing around, they spot pieces of their shaved hair on the linoleum. Crona stares at them for a moment before shyly asking, "Um… can I see the back now?"
"Huh?" Soul asks. A tick later he processes what was said. "Oh yeah, sure." He hands them a small mirror for them to hold up.
Crona takes it and angles it near the back of their dome until the haircut is visible in the larger mirror’s reflection. They stare for a long moment, until Soul prompts them with a, “Well?”
Their hand lifts, and they stroke the fuzzy hair, contemplating. They remain silent for a few more seconds before answering, “...I like it.”
“You sure?”
They keep rubbing their head. “I like how it feels.”
Soul snorts, amused. “But how does it look?”
“Good,” Crona answers decisively.
“Cool. Let’s get your bangs trimmed, then.”