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“Can I pleaseeee do your hair?”
Owen stares blankly at her for several moments. Shelby looks up at him with their best puppy-dog eyes, holding a brush in one hand and a few hair ties in the other.
“What do you mean, ‘do my hair?’” Owen asks. “What are you going to do to it?”
“I don’t know yet,” Shelby says. “I’ll figure it out as I go. C’mon, it’ll be fun, I promise!”
“Can’t you do this with Scott or Pyro?”
“But you have way more hair than them! Your hair is perfect, it’s so thick and long. I could do way more with it.” They seem to sense his reluctance, and they say, “If you don’t like it, you can take it back out once I’m done.”
He still doesn’t get the point, but it seems like it’ll make her happy, so Owen says, “I suppose, if you make it quick.”
“Really? Yes!” Shelby pumps her fist in celebration. “Trust me, when I’m done you’ll look so pretty…” She trails off. “Pretty cool, I mean. Cool and intimidating.”
Do they really think he’s so insecure that he can’t hear the word pretty without balking? Owen’s never had the luxury of looking any sort of way. It’s all equally meaningless to him. “Let’s get on with it,” he says. “Where do you want me?”
She sits him down on an old chunk of rock that works as a stool and starts pulling the comb through his hair, a process that takes her several minutes. “I can tell you actually wash your hair,” Shelby says appreciatively. “I’m impressed!”
“What? No I don’t,” Owen says. He hates water; he’s not about to subject himself to the indignity of a bath.
She just waves him off. “Quit messing with me, silly.” Curious, Owen runs a hand through his hair, noticing that it isn’t the same greasy, ragged texture it used to be throughout his human life. It’s the first time he’s even thought about it since his death.
“Vampires are supernaturally frozen in time from the day they were turned,” Owen explains. “I never washed my hair when I was alive, but the night before I was turned, Louis washed it for me. He was very thorough about it. I’d never been treated with such kindness in all my life.”
“Aw, that’s sweet,” Shelby says. “But does that really mean your hair stays the same as when you died? So I’ve been shampooing in the river for no reason?”
“What’s shampoo?” Owen asks, and Shelby giggles.
“Don’t worry about it,” they say. “Oh, that means Pyro’s going to be all greasy forever!”
“I suppose he is,” Owen says. The thought brings a reluctant smile to his face. He does rather resent the boy for his foolishness in turning Shelby. She should have been his kill. He was due one. But here he is anyway, bonding with her as if she were his own fledgling, not Pyro’s.
Shelby begins to gather up all of Owen’s hair using the brush, but she doesn’t get very far before she stops. “I need pins for this,” she says. “Definitely. Oh, this is going to be so good! Hang on, don’t move, I’ll be right back.”
When they return, they resume what they were doing before, collecting most of Owen’s hair together and pulling it into a bun that sticks out from the back of his head. Owen can’t imagine choosing to waste so much time on such a frivolous task, but at least Shelby’s enjoying herself. At one point they start braiding little sections of his hair and wrapping the braids around his head, a baffling choice. Owen can’t picture anyone, man or woman, adopting this sort of hairstyle. He wonders what it looks like.
“Done!” Shelby finally says, stepping back. “It’s really good for a first try. I was worried it wouldn’t turn out so well, but you look great!”
“Do I?” Owen finds that hard to believe.
“Yeah! Let me…” Shelby trails off with a sheepish expression. “I just realized, I can’t show you what it looks like.” She holds up her useless pocket mirror in demonstration. “I was looking forward to it, too!”
Owen shrugs. “Oh, well.” He’s probably better off not seeing it. He never cared to view himself in mirrors as a human. If anything, it was a relief to have the option taken from him in death.
“It’s okay, I’ll get Scott to come see. I want a second opinion.” Shelby’s already off before Owen can tell her he wants nothing less.
He stays put, despite himself. It would be rude to just disappear on her, and he’d rather not undo the progress he made today in their relationship. A fledgling should feel like they have a place they belong, and it would be counterproductive to give Shelby a reason to think otherwise.
“Ah, there he is,” Scott says, striding into the room. Shelby comes in on his heels, all smiles. Like they always are when Scott’s around. Owen still hasn’t figured out what she sees in him. “Let’s see.”
He circles around Owen’s stool, and Owen fights the urge to swivel around with him, to not let Scott out of his line of sight. His instinct is proven immediately correct when Scott grabs at the bun on the back of his head. “Excuse you,” Owen says, but Scott doesn’t even acknowledge his protest.
“You’re an excellent hairdresser,” he tells Shelby. “This looks like it’ll hold up. You should do this sort of thing more often.” Shelby basks in the praise.
“But how does it look on Owen?” she asks. “That’s the important part here. Do you think it works?”
Scott returns to look at him head-on, and Owen tries not look too disconcerted. He’s no stranger to being stared at; most of the gazes cast his way have been in disgust. “I think this is a very nice look for you,” Scott says. “Much more fitting for a vampire of your status. You look like a proper vampire elder now.”
Well. That’s something, at least. Better than disgust, Owen supposes. Maybe this sort of thing was in fashion in Scott’s day, or it is now in Shelby’s. Owen wouldn’t know in either case.
“I could make this look way better if you curled it overnight,” Shelby says. “Have you ever done rag curls before?” Owen blinks uncomprehendingly. “I’ll take that as a no! I can set it up for you, I promise you won’t have to do anything, okay?”
“What am I, a noblewoman?” Owen snorts. But as soon as he says it, Shelby pouts, and Scott’s gaze darkens. For whatever reason, Scott’s taken a particular liking to Shelby since their turning, and Owen knows better than to question it. “Oh, alright, fine,” Owen says. “Just this once.”
—
Shelby decides to leave his hair how it is for the rest of the day so he can enjoy it before they mess it up again, but Owen has no idea how he’s supposed to “enjoy” a hairstyle that he can’t even see. He doesn’t mind it, though. He quickly grows used to the weight of it on his head, and soon it’s like it’s not even there. He does avoid the humans when he’s out and about, not wanting to answer any stupid questions about why his hair’s done up.
When he returns to the castle ruins, however, he finds Pyro staring at him as Owen offloads some things into storage. “What is it?” Owen says, trying not to sound harsh. It’s hard to get a read on Pyro, who isn’t as forthcoming with his intentions as Shelby, but Owen thinks he’s been cordial enough with Scott’s desperate, eager-to-please little fledgling.
“Apologies, I was just—” Pyro gestures in Owen’s direction. “Your hair.”
Of course. “This was all Shelby’s doing,” Owen says. “She’ll get you next if you’re not careful.”
Pyro says nothing, but continues looking. Owen tries to get back to what he’s doing, but he can feel Pyro’s eyes on him, and he doesn’t appreciate it.
“Does it really look that bad?” he asks, making a joke out of it. “I’ve been told I look better this way, but I suspect they were only sparing my feelings.”
“No, I’d say I agree,” Pyro says, after a short pause. “You look quite handsome.” Their voice falters on the last word, as if they’re nervous to admit it. He must be telling the truth, then. “Or, I don’t know if handsome’s the right word, but it’s nice.”
“I’ll take that,” Owen says. Nice. He looks nice. All three of them think so, so it must be true.
What does it mean, to be a person that looks nice? That no one passing him on the street would keep their distance, hold their little ones closer and avert their eyes? Maybe if he hadn’t avoided human contact today, they too would have told Owen he looks nice. Or maybe, considering the closer scrutiny they’ve all been under since Pyro and Shelby’s turnings, it would’ve been more of the same. Distrust, contempt, mistreatment. Owen could never belong among the ranks of the living, no matter how he wears his hair.
Yet, if his fellow creatures of the night treat him like this, Owen could learn to weather the discomfort of being perceived. He may even let Shelby do his hair again, if she insists.
—
The process of rag curls, which apparently consists of painstakingly wrapping strips of cloth around individual chunks of Owen’s hair, takes even longer than the first hairdo. Owen is patient nonetheless, having ample experience in biding his time.
“Aaaand…” Shelby says, circling around him to check. “All done!”
“And I’m meant to keep these in for how long?” Owen asks.
“Just while you sleep! You can take them out in the morning and I’ll do up your hair afterwards.”
“Might I remind you that vampires don’t sleep?”
“Oh, right! Duh. Okay, so just keep them in for the next eight hours and you’ll be good.”
Eight hours is a while to be walking around with rags in his hair, but Owen’s already committed, so he may as well see it through. “Sure, alright.”
“Sheeeelby!” Scott calls, approaching. “I’m going hunting, do you want to—oh, there you are, Owen. I can never seem to find you.”
It’s oddly accusatory. Owen’s not sure how he feels about the idea of Scott trying to keep track of his whereabouts. “Hunting for animals, right?” Shelby asks.
Scott exchanges a conspiratorial look with Owen, as if to say, let the fledgling pretend. Owen has his doubts that Shelby will ever truly come around to the vampiric way of life, but he has no desire to hasten their rude awakening. “Of course,” Scott says smoothly.
“They’re certainly easier to catch,” Owen agrees, rising to his feet.
“You’re coming with us?” Scott asks. “Like that?”
Just like that, the illusion of camaraderie flickers. “Is that a problem?”
Shelby makes a face. “Ooh, Scott’s right,” she says. “You’ll have to be really careful with the curlers.”
“Maybe you’d better sit this one out,” Scott says.
It's odd—Owen can't think of any reason why they'd be excluding him outside of simply disliking his company, which makes little sense with the way Shelby's been jumping to spend time with him lately. And yet, his suspicion remains. He can't shake the feeling that there's more to this than they're letting on.
“We can bring food back with us,” Shelby says. “I’ll save all my meat for you—or do you want the blood?”
“I’m not picky,” Owen says, realizing too late that he's just conceded. Oh well. If he still gets a meal out of it, what does it matter? He doesn't lose anything by staying home. “I suppose I’ll have to find something to do around here for eight hours.”
“You could work on the castle restoration,” Scott suggests.
“I assumed you’d want to supervise,” Owen says, letting only a tinge of sarcasm bleed through. “Since it’s your castle and all.” He knew from the moment the restoration was brought up that he’d be doing most of the labor, and the last thing he needs is for Scott to come back and demand he tear it all down.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. I trust your judgment.” Scott waves Shelby over. “Let’s get going.”
They leave, Shelby waving and promising they’ll be back soon. Owen still isn’t sure what to make of it all, but he’s somehow managed to earn Scott’s trust, even if only in one respect. He can call that a victory.
He may as well get started. He has a lot of work to do.