Chapter Text
Gree ran his fingers over his head, catching hairs flanking the median of his scalp. He could feel the stubble forming in that frustratingly difficult to see place on his occipital bone. He’d usually attempt razoring it away by feel. However, with a formal gathering of Jedi and Senators later that night, he wanted to look his sharpest as he escorted General Luminara.
The other Commanders were occupied with preparations: Rex was caught up in smoothing over some relations with the senator from Naboo, Cody and General Kenobi were busy with forging diplomatic relations with the neutral planets prior to this afternoon’s event, nobody had seen Fox for more than a few minutes outside of his regular shifts, and the many more Clone Commanders were still deployed on the front lines. Having a lower ranking officer help cut his hair was out the question. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his troops, but something about the intimacy of a haircut - this haircut - felt wrong to share with his brothers. Gree knit his brows together in thought. There was still time to get ship-shape prior to the meeting.
Being on Coruscant had its advantages. Gree strode out beyond the Jedi Temple complex, past the busy streets peddling unsanctioned goods and trinkets. When he’d first ventured beyond the Temple with General Luminara and her Padawan, Bariss, it’d been a shock for him to see such a blatant contradiction to a Jedi’s vows and teachings laying mere steps away from the sacred halls. “We cannot control how others interpret the Force, only how we stride in our own walk with it,” the General had remarked. Gree could still picture the look of disgust from the Padawan for the merchants.
Finally, he reached a few streets of normalcy where the everyday citizens of the Republic conducted their business. A small, modest storefront filled in the cracks between a restaurant and a general goods store. The door simply had the image of some barber’s tools and a nonelectric sign stating OPEN. As Gree entered the shop and saw a lone old man shaking out a cape, a weight lifted from his shoulders. Here, he was just another trooper. Ranks and meanings dissipated. Hearing the door hit an overhead bell, the old man turned, his eyebrows barely jumping in surprise. “Another one of you clone boys? Get yourself a seat and take off that bucket. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Gree sat in one of the middle chairs, his helmet in his lap. The mirrored visor stared back up at him like a shadow of a dead-eyed trooper. A hand clapped the back of the seat, shaking him out of his daze. “Seen this before. You lookin’ to keep the ‘do?”
“Y-Yes, sir. I’m having a bit of trouble with the back, you see -“ Gree gestured to the back of his head where the two strips he’d been able to shave himself became overgrown. “They’re meant to connect here,” he showed with his fingers, unsure of if the old man knew the specifics. The barber crossed an arm across his chest, the other hand on his lips thoughtfully. Before either spoke another word, a cape draped over his helmet, draping over the back of the chair.
“Mighty popular haircut, this one.” The barber guided him to look down and lathered his scalp in shaving cream. Gree remained silent. He focused on feeling the short strokes of the razor blade, tracking every move in a challenging unwillingness to speak of particulars. “This color, is it natural?” Gree, unlike most clones, sported auburn hair. It’d started with a prank involving shampoo that resulted in mild bleaching. Instead of embarrassment though, he’d ended up liking the color together with the markings of his armor. At the time, it reminded him of the broad, tall, trees from the flash training with their red bark and green, pointy leaves. A smile tugged one side of his mouth at the memory.
“No, it’s not natural,” Gree admitted. The old man grunted in acceptance. A comforting silence grew between them. Finally, the barber wiped away the cuttings with a soft, warm cloth and handed him a mirror, spinning the chair. “That look alright to you?” Gree, held the mirror up, angled to see his reflection in the mirror on the wall. A perfect, sharp-edged U decorated the back of his head once again. “That’s good work,” he started, praising him like he would a trooper before remembering the more common manners, “Thank you.” They stood and settled the bill. As Gree turned to leave, putting his helmet back on to leave the shop, the old man hollered, “If you ever feel like changing it up, you know where to find me!”