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Laios never knows who will look back at him when he looks in the mirror. Marcille was right, in some ways. It's because of his hair. It was never a problem when he was growing up, but he's certain it's the problem now.
He grew it out, after deserting the army. Just couldn't be bothered to keep it cropped like that, another endless chore that had no point. It always grew back.
Then Falin had climbed out her dorm window and told him he looked like their father like that, hair falling in line with his jaw. She didn't mean anything by it, but the comment stayed with him, and before long he couldn't walk down the street without seeing his father's face reflected back at him in store windows.
So he shaved, cut every strand of his hair short. Looked in the mirror and realized he was standing at attention. Feet at a fifteen degree angle, heels together, eyes level, face neutral, fists relaxed at his sides, thumbs in line with the seam down the side of his pantlegs.
These days, he gets someone else to cut it for him. He can't see the back of his head to trim it shorter and shorter as he goes down his neck.
He can't afford to be picky about who, but he needs to trust them. It's like walking a tightrope. He can't let it grow, but he can't cut it too short.
Monthly haircuts are a small price to pay for knowing it's Laios who looks back at him when he walks by a mirror.