Work Text:
Warm rays of sunlight illuminated the salon, reflecting against the polished floors and full-length mirrors. The pile of hair at Kite’s feet was steadily growing as he trimmed. Hopefully Spin would come by with a broom soon. Kite’s client asked for some updated layers and thicker bangs, so he had rounded out the perimeter and was now trimming the layers for body and fullness. She didn’t have a lot of chemical damage, but split ends affected anyone who bothered to brush their hair, and he knew that better than most. At least she got cuts regularly.
His own hair was tied back in a messy bun, allowing him the freedom to whisk about the salon and tend to clients without any distractions. The first few weeks as a hairdresser, he’d left his hair down, and experienced a number of traumatic events – a shearing accident, misplaced purple hair dye, tangling with the client’s hair in the basin while shampooing and getting it caught in a curling iron, to name a few.
One last snip finished her cut. Kite set the scissors down, smiling gratefully as Spin collected all the hair on the floor in a dustpan.
“How would you like it styled?” He twirled a bottle of heat protectant in his hands absently.
“Straight, with moderate volume throughout. No smoothing products.”
Kite nodded, spraying her damp hair evenly. It was beyond comforting to have a client know what they wanted; though he was more than capable of prescribing a style based on someone’s face shape, skin tone and lifestyle, he preferred fulfilling a pre-existing wishlist. Did that make him lazy? He wasn’t sure.
Taking his time separating sections of hair as he blow dried them, Kite surveyed the salon. It was still relatively new, having opened less than a year ago, but business was constantly bustling and there was always a waiting list. He’d trained at Paul Mitchell, which, by itself, wasn’t that special, but also underwent a rigorous apprenticeship under Tabatha Coffey, a famous Australian hairdresser with a knack for coloring and a ruthless business practice. A few guest appearances on her TV shows had secured him a future in hairstyling.
A lock of hair from his bangs fell into his face as he worked, and Kite smiled. Tabatha had taken to him because of his hair – they were both platinum blonde, though hers was bottle-born, and quite short. She had once suggested he cut his hair so they could match. That train had derailed quickly.
“Okay, how’s this?” Kite turned off the blow dryer.
“Oh, it’s lovely! You always know just what to do. It’s perfect.” His client beamed at him. Every time someone was happy with their style, he’d get a fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was really quite addicting. The only other thing that produced this same feeling was that of being around animals, which rarely happened, due to his busy schedule and unrelenting landlords. He didn’t see how having six cats was different than having two, but rules were rules.
Maybe in a few years he could get a house. Then he could have twenty cats.
“See you in six weeks, Hannah,” he said, giving her a small wave as she bounced away to the receptionist.
“You know, I’ve never seen you hug anyone?” Spin’s voice sounded accusatory. Kite turned to face her.
“Sorry?”
“You don’t hug people. You don’t touch people a lot, either. What’s with that?”
“You think I should’ve hugged her?”
“Well, maybe, but I’m just saying. She’s always looking at you when you cut her hair, so maybe. You know.”
“If I’m cutting her hair, then I’m right next to her and it would be difficult not to look at me.”
“Ugh, never mind. You’re so dense.”
Kite laughed and started tidying up his workstation. “I understand your insinuation. Truly, I do. But I’m here to work. I like cutting hair, I like transforming people into a better version of themselves, and I like keeping things professional.”
“Okay, but you would? If things were different?”
“Just tell me who’s next and when.”
“You’re no fun. I think you have one soon with some guy – Ling, maybe? I forget. Ask Banana.”
“Your memory is atrocious. If you’re going to be teasing me about my dating life, can I constantly bring that up?” Kite playfully sent a hair tie her way as he moseyed to the reception desk. Hannah was still tittering about, and her face lit up as she saw him approach.
“Banana, who’s the next appointment?” Kite was almost too tall to lean comfortably on the desk, but he propped himself up anyway.
“Ah – you have a two o’clock with Ging, um, Freecss? Am I saying that right?”
“Cut or color?”
“Just a style. He said he didn’t want a cut.”
Kite nodded, turning his gaze to his client, who was looking up at him. Her brown eyes seemed to hold an extra twinkle.
“Here’s your tip,” she said shyly, handing him a crisp twenty. The warm pads of her fingertips touched his hands for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary.
“Thank you, that’s very kind.” His smile was genuine and he bowed his head briefly. Spin always commented on how polite he was, even if the situation was dire or someone was completely out of line. He supposed she was right; his temper was fairly constant, only heating up when animals were in danger or something happened to his hair.
He once had stumbled upon a drunk man beating his dog in an alleyway. The dog, a malnourished husky, was whimpering and rolling over in submission, obviously not understanding that the punishment was not a fair exchange. Kite had dropped his groceries, not caring about the bruised fruits or spilled milk, and flown at the man in a flurry, incapacitating him with furious punches to the jugular. The husky attacked him, loyal to its owner even then, and there were still scars on Kite’s arms from that encounter.
A few weeks after that incident, he’d found the husky lying dead in the streets, blood dripping out its ears.
He had cried for hours.
Hannah was still gazing at him wistfully, fidgeting with her purse as she tucked away the receipt. He snapped back to the present. “If you’ll excuse me.” Straightening his posture and returning to his workspace, Kite heard the door close as she left, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. He really did like her, and he wanted to avoid hurting her feelings as much as possible. Turning people down was something he didn’t ever enjoy.
It was one-thirty. Everyone around him was busy with their clients, and no one seemed to need help, so he slipped into the break room for a snack.
Spin was slurping up some noodles from her favorite red bowl. A pack of gum sat next to her utensils, like always. She only stopped chewing it when she was eating a meal. It was rather endearing, he thought.
“So?” she prodded, mouth full of noodles.
“So, what?” He knew full well what she meant, and she knew he knew. Kite held in a laugh as he opened a bottle of water, watching her eyes narrow with frustration.
“So, did you ask her out?”
“Why is this of such importance to you? Is there a bet going on that I don’t know about?” Kite let his hair down with one hand, running his fingers through the strands to detangle them.
“No, of course not. I just… you seem like you could use someone, that’s all.” Spin lowered her blue eyes to her bowl. His heart warmed.
“That’s very thoughtful. You’re someone, you know.” He started to tie his hair back up in a topknot.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“Thank you for hiring me. You didn’t have to.”
“Nonsense. You’re good at your job, and you being my friend makes it even better.”
“Pfft.” Spin was blushing a little, and she turned away to wash her dishes in the sink.
Truth be told, Kite had never felt a need for a significant other. There were people he admired, people he found aesthetically pleasing, people whose personalities he adored, and people who made him laugh until his stomach hurt, but he had never experienced a “hole”. There was no “missing piece” at his side, no “empty space” in his bed, and no longing desire for a soul mate.
He’d received plenty of offers – being a hairdresser for high profile fashion shows and photoshoots meant he was exposed to a wide variety of characters. He learned very quickly what “knowing Dorothy” actually meant, after a few conversations where he’d tried to explain how he really did know someone named Dorothy, from primary school.
Kite didn’t think about it often. It was of little importance. He supposed, were he to meet someone who filled a space in his life no one else did, he wouldn’t be disgusted with the notion of dating, a relationship, or even marriage. But it just didn’t matter right now.
All he wanted was to pet his cats, drink hot cups of tea, and provide people with proper hairstyles.
“Do you have any other clients today?” he asked, sipping his water.
“Yeah, some guys with really weird styling requests. Banana said something about an oversized pompadour and some kind of braided ponytail.” Spin replied over her shoulder as she dried her utensils.
“That should be interesting.”
“Maybe.”
Kite took his bottle with him back into the main room, setting about sharpening his scissors and razors.
He was surprised when the clock read 2:05; his client hadn’t come in yet, which was unusual. With a waiting list at least two months long, no-shows were incredibly rare. Kite gave Banana a puzzled look, to which he received a shrug in reply.
Time wasn’t something he wasted, though, and he took another drink of water as he swept his gaze across the other stylists, picking out the ones who seemed to be struggling. Kite took to correcting them gently – a grip on the scissors here, a motion with the brush there – and always with an honest smile. They was always room for improvement, anyway, and graduating beauty school didn’t mean you could just stop learning. They attended bi-monthly classes with various trendsetters of haircutting, to keep their skills up-to-date and refresh their basics. The education in his salon was something he was quite proud of.
“Kite, Mr. Freecss is here.” Banana called out to him. Wiping his brow, Kite glanced at the clock: 2:24. Past “fashionably late” and into the realm of “why bother showing up”, but he smiled at the disheveled man anyway.
At first glance, there wasn’t much hairstyling to be done – the man’s hair was covered in some sort of turban cap with messy black locks poking out through the fabric. He looked to be in his early thirties, but he had an unkempt 5 o’clock shadow that made him look much older. His hazel eyes stood out from the rest of his drab ensemble, blazing and alive with something Kite couldn’t quite place.
“I’m Kite, I’ll be your stylist today.” He extended his hand warmly, but the man – Ging – didn’t take it.
“Yeah, yeah.” His voice was gruff and lazy. “Rumor has it that you’re a hairdresser with magic fingers and you can fix any bad hair day, so that’s why I’m here.”
Kite was perplexed. Was the bad hair day under the cap, or was it part of the cap? Did the facial hair count too? Because it was a little sloppy, for his taste.
“I’ll do my best. This way,” Kite led his client to his workstation, and Ging took a seat heavily, arms crossed over his chest. He looked completely unwilling to participate in whatever Kite was about to do to him.
Kite whipped out the matte black styling cape, securing it around Ging’s neck to protect his clothes. Shabby as they appeared, tiny bits of hair itched and made any outfit unbearable to wear.
“Ah, may I?” Kite gestured to the cap. Ging grunted, staring out the window. Kite’s long fingers tugged at the cap, revealing a giant mess of black hair that stuck up in every direction, with tangles matted into the back so thickly it was a wonder there weren’t animals living inside.
Not that carrying animals around with you 24/7 would be a bad thing.
Before he could open his mouth to comment, Ging spoke. “I just want you to comb it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t want it cut or fancied up or anything, I just want you to brush it out.” He muttered something else under his breath that Kite couldn’t hear.
“I didn’t catch that.”
“I can’t comb it.” The man’s face was turning beet red, and Kite stared at him. Surely he was kidding? But no, the flushed cheeks and stubbornly averted gaze spoke volumes. He had truly lost the capability to comb his own hair.
“I see.” Kite took a minute to think, and he tested some of the tangles with his fingers, tugging lightly. None of them budged. “If you could, do you remember the last time you were able to brush it?”
“…no.”
A few of the other stylists in the salon were whispering amongst themselves, and he saw Ging shrink in on himself slightly.
“I’ll need to wash it first, then.”
“What? No, just detangle it with whatever hair people use to do stuff –” Ging sputtered, uncrossing his arms and gripping the sides of the chair. Kite grimaced, but held firm.
“Mr. Freecss, to detangle all this, it will need to be deep conditioned with Argon oil to avoid damaging the strands as I comb it.”
“Who cares if they’re damaged? If it’s combed, it’ll be okay, right?”
“Split ends and hair that has snapped off will look messy and unsightly, no matter how many times you comb it, because the damage to the hair shaft disrupts the smoothness of the strands, and that kind of damage is irreversible.”
Ging looked flustered, but he threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Okay, fine, have it your way.”
“Thank you. This way.” Kite shot the other stylists a look and they promptly returned to their own clients. This Ging person seemed to be quite shy, and if he wanted any cooperation at all, it would probably be best to alleviate any outside anxieties.
They arrived at the shampoo stations, and Kite placed a towel around Ging’s neck before sitting him down in one of the chairs.
“Let me know if the temperature is okay.” He would need use the coldest water possible to help seal the hair follicles. There was no verbal reply, but Kite could see his muscles relaxing and his head fell back into the basin without restraint as the freezing water ran over his scalp.
After a moment, Ging mumbled, “How did you know I take cold showers?”
Kite smiled to himself, lathering his hands with some hydrating shampoo and beginning to work it into Ging’s hair, being careful not to entangle it more. Ging made a quiet humming sound and shut his eyes. Kite spent a few minutes massaging Ging’s scalp absently.
“What’s the occasion?” Kite asked.
“Eh?”
“Why are you having your hair combed? I gather it’s not something you usually bother with.”
“Oh, that. I, uh, am going to meet my son.”
“Your son?”
“Yeah. I haven’t seen him in a long time, and I thought that, well, I should probably. You know. Clean up a little.”
“Where are you meeting him?”
“Providence. For dinner.”
Kite paused for a moment, and Ging cracked an eye open in what was probably annoyance.
“Is it a formal event?”
“I mean, no, I was just gonna wear this and stop by later tonight…” Ging trailed off, looking up at the ceiling and avoiding Kite's eyes.
“This.”
Ging’s face flushed again, and he struggled to cross his arms across the protective black cape. “He’s my son, not the president.”
“I get the feeling you’re trying harder to impress your son than you would the president of any nation.” Kite said wryly, resuming his scalp massage. “In that case, I think you could use a trim.”
“What? No, I said I didn’t want anything fancy –”
“Are you going to argue that proper, normal, and regular maintenance of your hair should qualify as fancy, when you’re only bothering to reach the barest minimum of grooming standards to meet your son?” Kite’s face grew suddenly quite serious, and he towered over Ging, his impressive height combined with Ging’s seated position making for quite a spectacular distance between them.
Kite won the staring contest.
“Fine, do whatever you want,” Ging huffed, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head away in defiance. There wasn’t much leeway in the basin, though, so it was a futile attempt. Kite snorted and he reached for the conditioner. There would be no holding back in this area, and he slathered globs of it onto Ging’s head, working it through the tangles as best he could.
“I’m not gonna smell all fruity after this, am I?”
“Mr. Freecss, please.”
After waiting a few minutes for the conditioner to soak in, Kite rinsed out his client, and shut the water off. He patted down Ging’s hair with a towel before motioning for him to stand.
“This way.” He started towards the side of the salon, but Ging lingered for a moment, confusion on his face.
“We’re not going back to the –?”
“No.”
Kite led them to a small room sectioned off by frosted glass doors. It was the room he was supposed to use, as the salon’s owner, to set him apart from the rest of the staff and give his clients a more private experience. He often chose to work on the main floor instead, preferring the hustle and bustle of his coworkers and the openness of the area. In Ging’s case, though, this would be better.
Ging sat down in the lone chair, his reflection in the mirror looking back at him with the same flustered expression.
Kite pulled open a drawer, selecting a wide-toothed comb, some leave-in conditioner – make that two different leave-in conditioners – and a few hair clips. He started sectioning off the hair, piling the top half on top of Ging’s head and leaving the lower layers loose.
“How old is your son?” he asked conversationally as he sprayed some conditioner on the ends of Ging’s hair.
“Ah, he’s. Fourteen.” There was a little hesitation in his answer, which would perhaps have been worrisome, but Kite surmised they had a very feeble relationship and that Ging wasn’t much of a father figure.
“Oh? He’s fourteen and you’re taking him to Providence?” Kite started with a small tuft of hair to the side of Ging’s head, using the comb to detangle the ends bit by bit.
“He’s taking me. Actually.” Ging’s complexion was warming up again.
“He must be a great kid,” Kite smiled at Ging’s reflection, having completed the first (admittedly tiny) section of detangling.
“He is.” Ging replied flatly, his gaze dropping.
Sensing the topic to be delicate, Kite changed course. “So what do you do, Mr. Freecss?”
“Call me Ging. I’m not that old.”
“Okay, Ging. What do you do? For a living.”
“I’m an archeologist. I help restore ancient ruins.”
“That sounds fascinating, I don’t think I’ve ever met an archeologist before. Did you have to get a degree for that?”
“I falsified one from a private university.” Ging gave a toothy grin.
“Which university?” Kite wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not, he played along anyway.
“Rokario Tech.”
“Hm, do you enjoy it? Archeology?”
“Yeah. Bringing something ancient and decrepit back to life so that others can see its beauty – I live for it.”
“It sounds fulfilling. You’ll have to take me on a tour sometime.”
“Depends how my hair turns out.” Kite chuckled, turning the chair slightly so Ging could see the back of his head. It was sleek and utterly detangled. “What? Already? How did you do that?” Ging demanded.
“I get a lot of practice.” Kite let some of the upper layers down, starting the process over as he sprayed more conditioner on the ends.
“With your hair?”
“Ah, yes, it does occasionally get quite tangled. Only if I forget to brush it before I shower or after some exercise.”
“How long is it? It has to be pretty long, doesn’t it, for it to go into that ball thing?” Ging pointed from under his cape.
“The longest parts are at my knees.”
“What? No way, that’s bullshit, you’re joking. Show me.”
Kite set his tools down, pulling the hair tie out of his hair and letting it cascade over his shoulders. True to his word, the length of it brushed the backs of his knees, with some shorter layers hitting his waist and chest. Ging looked incredulous.
“How long did it take to grow it all?”
“Most of my life.”
“How long is that?”
“Are you asking me how old I am?”
“Yeah.”
“Will it change your opinion of me at all if I tell you?”
“No, why would it?”
“You’d be surprised. I’m twenty-seven.”
“Eh? You don’t look a day over twenty-two. It took twenty-seven years to grow all that?”
“No, it took around seventeen. I had short hair until I was ten.”
“Why did you change it?”
Kite pondered as he unclipped the last section of Ging’s hair and started combing through it. “I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.”
“I suppose it… hid my face.”
“Why was that important?”
“I used to steal a lot. Food, clothing, necessities. To get by.”
“But doesn’t the long hair make you easier to spot?”
“I guess it does. At the time, it made sense.”
They were silent for a moment, until Kite triumphantly ran the comb through Ging’s hair without a snag. He looked like a drenched puppy without all the volume from the tangles and oil buildup, and though it was perhaps more proper, Kite found the slicked back style didn’t suit Ging at all.
“I can’t believe you actually did it.”
“I’m not the head stylist for no reason.” Kite pulled his own hair back in a lazy ponytail to keep it out of the way before grabbing a pair of shears and a fine-toothed comb. “I’m going to trim the ends and get rid of the dead parts, okay? It’ll still look like your hair when I’m done, I promise.”
Ging gave him a nod of affirmation. He was being much more compliant, Kite noticed, and he wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to the privacy of the room or to the conversation they had just shared. Either way, he was going to fix this man’s hair and make him presentable for his son.
He started by taking a half-inch off the length, wet pieces of hair falling all over the floor as he worked. Next, he point cut the layers, adding extra texture where it was needed. For the final step, he took some of the hair from Ging’s crown, raising it above his head and cutting down into it.
“What are you doing?” Ging’s voice wasn’t critical, but more curious in its tone, so Kite obliged him.
“This is called overdirecting. It adds volume and exaggerates the layers, which means it’ll be messy. But the correct kind of messy.”
“There’s a correct kind of messy?”
“Of course.”
“That seems a little strict.”
Kite made a face, tussling Ging’s hair with his free hand. The cut was finished – now he just had to dry it and style it. “Do you use hair products at all?”
“I put gel in it.”
“Hm.”
A few minutes later, much in the same way he’d dried Hannah’s hair, Ging’s hair was mostly dry, but it was much more voluminous, thanks to an abundance of a root-boosting product. Kite added some styling gel to the tips of his fingers and sculpted the style into something vaguely reminiscent of what Ging had entered the salon with, albeit much more refined and professional. And, of course, not covered by a hat.
When he was finally finished, Kite looked at the clock. 3:25. Right on time.
“How’s this?” He handed Ging a mirror and spun the chair around, so Ging could see the back.
“It’s... wow. I’m pleasantly surprised. I thought you were going to butcher it.”
“Did I only barely not butcher it?” Kite teased, brushing some stray hairs off the front of his shirt. He’d forgotten to put on an apron and now there were black strands all over him.
“No, it’s good. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Kite unbuttoned the cape around Ging’s neck, allowing him to stand and stretch.
“How much do I owe you? Or do I talk to the receptionist?”
“Ah, this service is free of charge, on one condition: I will not allow you to wear this hat to meet your son.” Kite held up the offending cap distastefully.
“What? That’s my favorite hat.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have to come back and get it after your dinner.”
“Are you serious? There’s no other way?”
“If you wear this to see your son, I’ll charge you double my usual rate.”
Ging looked at him blankly, his features slowly sinking into despair. “Honestly – okay, fine. I won’t wear it. But it better be safe when I get back!”
“What would I do with it, burn it?” Kite smiled, tossing the cap onto the chair and leading them back into the main room.
“Don’t even joke about that.”
/
The streets were busy and Kite weaved through crowds of people easily. His tall frame allowed him to spot empty spaces, and he would slip between passersby out of habit. It was something he picked up as a child running from the police. Though it served him no good now that he was the tallest person around, he found it difficult to stop.
For his dinner break, he’d gone to a nearby coffee shop, grabbing a sandwich and a bagel to-go. Spending time with his coworkers was preferable to sitting alone in an overpriced café.
As he strode down the streets, a flash of blue caught his eye. In one of the small boutiques to the side of the walkway, there was a blue newsboy cap adorning a mannequin with long blonde hair and sunglasses. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to study it closer. The stream of people broke like water against rock around him, and he was only lightly jostled as he stared.
Hiding his hair under a hat was probably the least appealing thing Kite could think of. He worked hard to take care of it, so why would he subject it to such a fate?
Still, something about it seemed important. He couldn’t figure out why.
A few more seconds sufficed plenty, and he resumed his walk to the salon.
/
“Kite? Are you here?”
It was past closing hours by a sizable margin, but Kite was still working, polishing everyone’s mirrors and cleaning dye off the counters. Spin had offered to help him, but he shooed her home. Taking pride in his salon was something he enjoyed.
“Yeah.” Kite stood up straight, taking off his latex gloves and throwing them in the trash. He’d been in the middle of bleaching the sinks for a deep-clean. “How did your dinner go?”
Ging scratched the back of his head, looking at the ground. The corners of his lips were turned up.
“That good?” Kite leaned against the reception desk, resting his chin on his hands with a smile.
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad. Here’s your cap.” Banana had stored it – safely, as promised – in one of the drawers, so it wouldn’t get misplaced or thrown away by a junior stylist.
“Oh, thanks.” Ging took it, but instead of putting it on his head, he awkwardly held it under his arm. “That reminds me, I, uh. Oh, man.” Ging’s face was red again. Kite waited patiently. “I saw this, and I, uh, it reminded me of you.” Ging held out the very same blue newsboy hat Kite stopped to admire earlier that day.
Kite was taken aback as he accepted the gift, rubbing the fabric with his fingers. “Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why, it just. I thought. Yeah.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.” Probably on more levels than Kite would ever care to divulge.
“I’ll need you to do my hair again next week.”
“Oh? What for?”
“I’m going to dinner again.”
“With your son?”
“No. Hopefully, with you.”
Kite felt a strange feeling settle in his stomach and his fingers twitched as they held the cap. “That was sort of awful.”
Ging let out a nervous laugh, his eyes lighting up. “Pretty greasy, right?”
“Almost as greasy as the monstrosity of a hairstyle you came in with today.”
“So?”
Perhaps he wouldn’t have considered it earlier, had Ging not brought the newsboy cap, but Kite was touched at his thoughtfulness, and still quite surprised they had both managed to pick out the same hat for him. The way Ging stood was completely transparent; he was open to rejection, and probably wouldn’t mind if he was rejected, as long as he’d tried. He struck Kite as the sort of person to be unabashed in these kinds of failures.
“Call my receptionist, he can set something up.”
Ging laughed, genuinely, this time, and Kite felt secure in his decision to agree. Anyone with a laugh like that would be worth getting to know.
“Okay. Thanks for the ‘do, doll.”
“Don’t ruin it.”