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Momo Hinamori, a self-professed goody two shoes and quite possibly one of the most innocuous people in the entire Gotei 13, does not slam doors.
She prides herself on that fact, amongst many other things about her kind and caring temperament. She is the kind of person who closes doors gently behind her regardless of the preceding circumstances, who straightens papers into composed, careful stacks even when she’s feeling particularly angry, who apologizes when someone else bumps into her and it isn’t even remotely her fault. She is composed. She is collected. She is disciplined. She is—
Behind her, the sliding door to the Fifth Division captain’s quarters ends up hitting the wooden frame much harder than she had ever intended as she shuts it. Jazz music drifts outwards from inside the office, playing from a vinyl record that she’s heard on repeat more times than she can count, almost mocking her as she makes her exit.
So, it’s most definitely not a ‘slam’… well, not technically, she tells herself internally; or rather, attempts to convince herself fruitlessly. Whatever she may think, it’s most certainly close enough to one that the sound of it echoes throughout the hallways surrounding her, forcing her to wince just slightly in an outward display of embarrassment.
Not that it matters, given that no one is around to see her rare display of ire.
The jazz music continues onwards, not even missing a singular beat, and the atmosphere around her swirls with a myriad of impending emotions. It’s almost like even the air encircling her isn’t quite sure what to do with what had just occurred; Momo herself feels much the same, standing idle for more than a mere moment, her back stick straight, both fists clenched at her sides, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth to calm herself down.
She can still hear his voice bouncing around inside her head, echoing off the sides of her skull— light, jovial, casual, in an almost sing-song tone that perpetually undercuts any sort of seriousness he ever carries with him.
“Vice-Captain Hinamori, ya look like hell. Go get a haircut.”
A haircut.
She exhales sharply through her mouth one final time, concluding what had basically amounted to some rather unhelpful breathing exercises, and then starts walking away from the captain’s quarters— no, not walking— practically marching. Unfortunately, she doesn’t get very far down the hallway before her steps slow to a stop when she realizes that she essentially has no plan for how to proceed from here.
A haircut: that’s what he had said, almost as if it were nothing at all and not something that could be considered a borderline insult. As if she didn’t have better things to do— essential reports to file for the future, fresh squad members to check on, group kido practices to supervise, daily patrol schedules to finalize. As if she had the time to leave the Seireitei to go to some gaudy Rukongai salon for a goddamn haircut, of all things.
Unconsciously, her fingers curl even tighter, bound into a tiny fist; a fist now so taut that her knuckles go white.
As if he has any right to say anything at all, really.
Realizing that standing still is doing her no good whatsoever, she continues her forward marching until she reduces her speed after slowly beginning to lose all her initial steam, her steps gradually losing their sharp, annoyed edge as impenetrable logic begins to creep into her brain through the growing cracks in her outward irritation. No matter what she may think, he’s the captain of the Fifth Division now; that’s just how it works, and orders are orders… even utterly ridiculous ones.
Still, she thinks to herself, letting out a huff of air aimed upwards at her bangs.
At last, she unclenches her fist before then reaching up with her right hand from where it now hangs idle at her side, brushing it through the uneven ends of her hair. As she runs her hand through the brown strands, her fingers catch slightly where it’s grown far too long and ended up tangled, something she usually doesn’t notice given that it’s normally hastily tied into a ponytail or a bun. Thinking back, she realizes that her hair has been left to fend for itself for weeks— or rather, months, if she’s honest.
The simple fact is that she hasn’t been taking care of it; she knows that well enough. Truth be told, she hasn’t been taking care of herself altogether.
It just… hasn’t felt important; none of it at all. Not after she woke up from her second medically induced coma to the sight of Toshiro sleeping upright in a chair next to her bed, not since she’d been dealing with nightmares of being impaled by two of the men she had considered most important in her life within a despairingly short amount of time, not following the intensive therapy sessions she had been mandated to attend by Captain Unohana even following her discharge from the Fourth Division.
Her jaw tightens so much that if anyone were there watching, they would see the muscle flex.
That doesn’t mean he gets to notice or say a single word about it.
Unfamiliar with most things ‘girly’ or anything having to do with beauty, she finds herself consulting someone who she knows undoubtably is: Rangiku Matsumoto, longtime friend and fellow Vice-Captain of the Tenth Division. Rangiku had positively lit up when asked for a salon recommendation, glowing with radiant joy and exclaiming that she knew just the place for Momo; somewhere that wouldn’t make her uncomfortable, nor feel too elitist.
Said recommended salon located in one of the more upscale Rukongai districts isn’t particularly large, but her very first impression upon pushing the door open is that it’s quite well-kept. In fact, Momo would go so far that to say from the very moment she had entered, it was downright serene. A sort of quiet tranquility lingers in the air, even in the lobby area; unconsciously, the corners of her lips curve upwards into a barely-there smile, and she makes a mental note to buy Matsumoto a thank you gift, for this is indeed her kind of place.
Hinamori stands just inside the doorway for a few seconds longer than necessary, her emotions a complicated mixture of amazement at the calming environment surrounding her, irritation still simmering under her skin regarding the ridiculous orders she had received from her captain, and gratitude towards her orange-haired comrade for recommending what amounted to such a lovely shop.
“Can I help you?”
The receptionist’s voice is gentle, practiced, clearly experienced with all sorts of clientele. She sits behind a pristine counter that displays a variety of rather adorable succulent plants alongside a small bamboo fountain that rhythmically taps repeatedly against a rock as its arm gradually fills with water and then descends via gravity to empty itself into a small pool at the bottom.
Momo snaps out of her reverie abruptly and nods quickly, stepping forward with far more confidence than she actually feels.
“Yes, I—” She actively hesitates for a moment, and that fact alone somehow manages to annoy her even further, because this really shouldn’t be that big of a deal in the first place. She takes in a deep breath, and then says in what comes out in a squeaky tone: “I need a haircut.”
Despite the shrill cadence of her voice, each word feels much heavier than it should when they leave her lips.
“Of course. Right this way.”
The young looking receptionist makes a single marking on a piece of paper in front of her before standing up, silently gesturing for Momo to follow her, and then retreating towards the back of the salon. Wordlessly, Momo pursues her, taking care to match the girl’s pace and not fall behind, each step feeling like she’s walking into the depths of something that she didn’t even choose for herself.
If walking towards the back of the shop made her feel like none of this was her own decision, finally sitting down in the stylist’s chair makes it notably worse. There’s just something she doesn’t like about it— the sudden forced stillness, the way she can’t sit with her legs crossed for comfort, the instructions to stop doing anything, the need to keep her hands by her sides, the directions to merely sit there while someone entirely unknown to her fusses with her appearance.
It all makes her earlier irritation bubble up and begin to sharpen again, as if it’s being honed against a rock into some sort of a weapon. She places her hands to rest stiffly in her lap and settles both of her feet down onto the footrest as the stylist begins what she thinks will essentially be her version of a torture session by simply combing through the strands of her medium length brown hair.
“Oh, dear,” the older woman murmurs, though not unkindly. She’s quite different from the simple receptionist who had disappeared the moment Momo had been seated; no, her makeup and hairstyle are done to the nines, something Momo could never dream of being able to accomplish even if she were granted all the time and skill in the world. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”
Momo feels both of her lips press together into a thin line before she can even stop herself. Understatement of the century, really; she’s been through hell and back, and she supposes that her unkempt hair tells that very story.
“…Yes.”
The elegant looking comb catches on a knot in her hair and the stylist tuts once before taking the time to work out the kink, her actions gentle and careful. After the initial combing through is over with, the woman hums softly before speaking directly to her once more, looking at her through the mirror that’s mounted on the wall before the two of them.
“Well, I can promise you that we’ll take care of you.”
Despite the stylists’ politeness, internally Momo finds herself wanting to scream her lungs out: I don’t need taking care of. I can manage myself. I can do this. I have been through more than the average person can bear, and a haircut won’t change a thing about anything.
Instead, she sits perfectly silent there in the chair as the stylist pumps the back of it, slowly raising her upwards. Her posture is so forcedly perfect that it feels entirely disjointed and awkward, her spine almost painfully erect and her shoulders pulled all the way back. Realizing that now the situation is officially out of her control, she takes a deep breath and instead casts her gaze towards her reflection in the mirror rather than focusing on how very tense she feels.
Admittedly, it’s… not great. Momo hasn’t really taken the time to look at herself in a while— not properly, anyway.
She takes care of herself, sure, but only to the extent of basic hygiene; now, exposed under the bright lights of the salon, she notices the dullness of her skin and the gaunt shadows lingering beneath her eyes. Thinking back, she tries to remember the last time she had actively gone out of her way to take care of her appearance and realizes that beyond using her bathroom mirror to tie her hair up in the morning, she can’t recall anything other than quick glances in various reflective surfaces as she went about her days, rushing hurriedly from one duty to another.
There’s no denying that her brown hair has grown in uneven, its ends entirely frayed. Her bangs are far too long, covering the entirety of her forehead and falling into her eyes in a way that makes her look more tired than she feels. Much like her skin, there’s a dullness to it, too— not unhealthy, exactly, but noticeably neglected, and lacking the shiny indicator of hair that has been regularly tended to.
Her chest tightens ever so slightly.
“I’d like to clean up the length,” the stylist tells her informatively, her fingers moving with quiet confidence through Momo’s hair, playing with it experimentally. “And perhaps frame your face a bit more. We don’t have to do anything too drastic.”
Hinamori immediately opens her mouth, ready to say something sharp and pointed— something about how this is unnecessary, how she doesn’t have time for ‘framing’ or worrying about her hair’s length— but the words die in her throat before she can utter a single syllable.
Because it’s at that exact moment that she remembers the look on Shinji’s face when he had given her the ridiculous orders that had brought her here; not mocking— well, not any more so than usual— merely... observant.
As if he had somehow seen something that she hadn’t.
Both of her tensed shoulders lower just a fraction, and she feels her spine relax the tiniest bit.
“That’s fine,” she says, quieter now, internal screams slowly suffocating under the weight of the stylists’ kindness.
The first cut is, undoubtably, the very worst part of the entire experience.
After she’s been taken to the very back and plopped down into a reclining chair before a large black wash basin, after her hair has been thoroughly shampooed and deep conditioned with products that smelled downright heavenly (not that she would never admit it), she finds herself back in the stylists’ chair, staring herself down in the mirror, practically holding her breath with a nervous anticipation.
The sound of the snip of the specialized grooming scissors is soft, but somehow it lands heavier than it should and feels like it’s many decibels louder. She watches helplessly as what she considers to be a piece of her— of how she’s been, of how she’s let things become since waking up and learning that nearly everything had changed around her while she had been asleep— falls away and drifts downwards toward the floor.
Unable to help herself, Momo’s fingers twitch, and the desire to rip off the stylists’ cape and sprint from the shop almost overwhelms her; however, she keeps her hands still at her sides, hidden underneath the stylists’ hairdressing gown, and prays that the pleasant woman tending to her hair doesn’t notice her internal turmoil.
In the end, though she knows that she could, she doesn’t stop it from happening.
Momo observes warily as more and more locks of hair fall; the rhythm of the cut becomes steady, almost soothing in a way that she doesn’t expect in the slightest. The beautiful stylist works carefully, section by section, smoothing, trimming, shaping. She hums a happy tune all the while, and Momo can’t help but wonder if it’s to combat her client’s obvious tense mood or just because she simply loves what she does for a living.
At first, she watches in a manner that could be considered overly critical, her brown eyes narrowed while she gazes at her reflection, waiting to hate whatever will become of her hair after this. However, as the shape of it gradually begins to change, as the unevenness and frayed ends disappear and something cleaner— lighter, airier, fresh— takes its place, she finds her expression relaxing despite herself, alongside her dimming internal despair.
Her bangs are trimmed, styled perfectly so they are swept to the right side to keep them out of her eyes without losing their overall softness. The length is shortened; not especially drastically, but enough that it looks intentional rather than overgrown and unkempt. She likely won’t be able to tie it back anymore, she thinks to herself, but mentally shrugs that off; it’s less work for her in the morning, and she can’t deny that she likes the new length. Finally, layers are added— subtle ones, the stylist mentions, but Momo finds that they give her hair movement, resulting in a gentle appearance around her face that makes her look…
Less tired. More like herself.
More… alive.
Abruptly, she concludes that she hadn’t even realized how much she’s missed that feeling.
Once her work is finished and strands of Momo’s hair litter the floor all around them, the stylist steps back slightly before then giving her a hand mirror so that she can see the back of the cut as well as the front of it.
“Well, honey, what do you think?”
Momo blinks her big, brown eyes twice— not just at the unexpected term of affection from the woman who’s now smiling over her shoulder, something else she realizes now she has been missing, but at herself. She stares at her reflection, really and truly looks this time.
It’s still her (because of course it is, a haircut won’t fundamentally change who she is), but somehow, everything about her is also different. Something about the way her hair falls into place now, the way it catches the light with a new healthy shine, the way it no longer hides her facial features or drags down her expressions— it makes her look… brighter, maybe. Or just… less weighed down, like the weight of the world has been lifted off her tiny square shoulders.
Her throat tightens up unexpectedly, and she swallows the lump that she feels forming within it.
“It’s…” She begins to speak and then pauses, searching for the right word to describe how she feels about her new look.
‘Good’ feels too simple. ‘Beautiful’ feels too exaggerated. ‘Gorgeous’ feels too much like boasting.
“…lovely,” she settles on, and for the first time since walking into the shop, she gives the stylist a weak attempt at a smile.
The beautiful woman merely smiles in return, warmth radiating from her visage.
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
The walk back to the Fifth Division barracks feels entirely foreign, though she’s taken this route from Rukongai many times.
Momo doesn’t realize the novelty of it at all at first; for she’s still thinking— still replaying the scene from earlier this morning in her head, totally-not-door-slamming included, still trying to decide whether her irritation with Captain Hirako is even justified— or if she's merely projecting her own feelings of inadequacy and frustration towards herself upon him. However, as she passes through the Seireitei, something within her starts to shift.
It begins with Hisagi.
“Vice-Captain Hinamori?”
She turns on her heel upon hearing her formal title, automatically conditioned to respond given any circumstances. There stands the Ninth Division Vice-Captain, staring her down like she’s a different person somehow. His dark eyes are slightly widened, and he looks entirely taken aback; in his arms are stacks of what can only be the Sereitei Communication, the Soul Society’s official newspaper, of which he is the editor-in-chief.
For a moment, silence lingers between them, but then a smile erupts on his scarred and tattooed face.
“Your hair— I mean— it looks great!”
Momo merely blinks, completely taken by surprise. It takes her a moment to come to her senses, and then she finally finds her words, albeit stumbling along the way.
“O-Oh. I… thank you.”
He gives her a jovial wave before heading off in the direction of the Ninth Division Barracks, no doubt to distribute his pride and joy amongst his peers for their perusal. After that encounter, she continues walking along her route home, but her steps slow down noticeably; she finds herself reaching up to fiddle gently with the hair ornament that the stylist had insisted upon imparting to her before she left, as a sort of parting gift and ‘a way to mark a fresh start’.
A few moments later, she hears yet another familiar voice call her name.
“Hinamori! Did you change your hair?”
She rotates around again, this time spotting Third Squad Vice-Captain Kira Izuru, a longtime friend and former classmate. He’s busy leading a group of fresh young Shinigami lord knows where, but the boyish grin on his face brings a tinge of redness to her cheeks. She smiles and waves to him, confirming his suspicions with a simple “yes” but not stopping to chat, as it’s obvious he doesn’t currently have the time for a lengthy conversation.
Momo resumes her walk, finding herself stopped periodically along the way by both seated and unseated officers. Another compliment is bestowed upon her, and then another, and another. Each one lands softly and unexpectedly, and she feels her nerves regarding the change she’s made settling down with each passing moment. The words from others are not overwhelming, nor are they overly exaggerated— just genuine observations, offered in passing, but with enough warmth to make her pause.
Towards the end of her trek back to the barracks, she finds herself reaching up, fiddling with the hair ornament once more, then touching the ends of her hair again. Somehow everything feels… lighter, and not just physically. It’s almost as though the sun is shining especially bright just for her, though in her head she knows that’s nothing more than silly nonsense.
As she passes by an especially glossy window, she spots her reflection and she ends up stopping for an extended moment, just long enough to see it— to see herself. It’s at that point that the irritation she had felt towards Captain Hirako and his ridiculous orders from earlier doesn’t necessarily vanish, exactly, but it does shift; it becomes something less sharp, less jagged.
Something more… complicated.
By the time she finally reaches the Fifth Division barracks, the place she calls home, her emotions have settled into something much quieter. She’s still quite uncertain, and still feeling a little defensive, but no longer is there a sense of irritation boiling beneath the surface of her skin. Striding down the long hallway, she abruptly stops outside the Captain’s quarters, her hand hovering near the door, poised to knock.
For a moment, she considers not knocking or entering at all. If she’s being utterly technical, he hadn’t given her any sort of orders to report back.
Nevertheless, she knocks.
“Come in.” His sing-song voice is just as light and casual as it had been this morning.
Taking a deep breath, Momo slides the door open without any further delay, stepping inside with her trademark practiced composure. Shinji Hirako is in the exact same spot where she left him— lounging in a splayed-out position upon a bean bag chair (‘absolutely essential’, he had called it, when he brought it from the world of the living), completely relaxed, listening to some faintly familiar sounding jazz music, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had issued some of the most ridiculous orders she’s ever received and been the brunt of her ire all morning.
He glances up from a vinyl record cover that he’s cradling in both of his hands like it’s a precious china piece and then he pauses, just for a brief second. It’s so very subtle that anyone else not versed in Captain Hirako’s behavior might miss it— but Momo, who’s become an expert in all things Shinji (whether she likes it or not), doesn’t. His brown eyes take her in— not in a way that makes her uncomfortable, nor in a way that feels intrusive, but in a way that just feels… attentive; like he’s actually looking.
And then that trademark toothy smile slowly spreads across his face.
“Well, would ya look at that.”
Momo immediately folds her arms over her chest, a protective instinct naturally kicking in before she can even help herself.
“Look at what, exactly?”
He tilts his head to the side ever so slightly, still smiling.
“I like it. It suits you.”
The words are outwardly simple, but they land completely differently than the compliments that she had received during her return here from all the others she had encountered. Perhaps it’s because they’re coming directly from him, her Captain, or maybe it’s because there’s no teasing element to them this time; there’s no underlying joke for once.
Just sheer sincerity.
Momo actively hesitates before uncrossing her arms and then clasping both of her hands together, playing absentmindedly with the tie of her shihakusho. Her irritation from this morning flickers bleakly like a flame inside of her stomach, trying to rise again to its former roaring inferno— but it doesn’t quite make it, smothered out entirely by the current warmth of the environment surrounding him and that damned smile.
“You didn’t have to order me to do it,” she says, her tone softer than before.
Shinji merely hums along to the music for a moment before setting the record casing in his hands aside gently upon a stack of many, many others.
“Yeah, I did.”
Her brows knit together and her lips press into a thin line. “That’s not tr—”
“Ya wouldn’t have gone otherwise.”
The statement isn’t harsh at all coming from his lips; in truth, it’s gentle, it’s matter-of-fact, and oh hell, it’s annoyingly accurate. Momo opens her mouth to argue, then abruptly closes it again, because in the end she knows that he’s completely correct. She wouldn’t have gone of her own volition, but it’s not because she didn’t care at all about herself.
It’s because she didn’t think she was allowed to.
She hadn’t thought herself capable of letting go, hadn’t thought she had the permission to repent for her past transgressions, hadn’t thought that she could make such a simplistic change to symbolize moving on from the past at long last. Silence stretches out between the two of them, softer now, no longer filled with the tension she had felt upon exiting his office this morning with what she is now prepared to admit was definitely a door slam.
Shinji leans back slightly in his plush bean bag chair, resting his hands behind his head.
“A little change is healthy,” he says, voice lighter again, but not dismissive. “Keeps ya from getting stuck, from bein’ bogged down with past nonsense.”
Momo casts her brown gaze downwards for a short moment, unclasping her hands and allowing the fingers of her right hand to brush up against the ends of her newly cut hair once again. ‘Stuck’, she thinks. The word flows over her and into her before settling somewhere deep inside of her, somewhere that she’s been carefully avoiding all this time since she woke up to a new world, one that had moved on and shamelessly left her behind.
She inhales slowly, measuredly, carefully.
“I’ve been… busy,” she finally says, like it’s somehow an acceptable explanation for her complete lapse in self-care.
“Yeah,” he replies easily, as if his first time meeting her hadn’t been when she was unconscious, hooked up to all kinds of tubes and medical apparatuses. “I'm aware.”
No accusation; no judgment; no condemnation; just pure acknowledgment. After his kind response, she looks back up at him, meeting his gaze. He’s still smiling that silly toothy grin— but it’s somewhat different now. It’s softer, less playful, more sincere.
“You’re doing a good job, you know,” he adds, seemingly randomly, changing the subject with ease like he’s doing something simple such as discussing the weather.
Momo blinks in surprise once more, given that that wasn’t what she had expected to hear at all. Her chest tightens again, but in a different way this time— a good way, the way it might constrict after a good, long cathartic cry or a thorough training session pushing herself to the limit. Because that’s all she ever wants to do— a good job. All she had ever wanted to be was a good Lieutenant, to be strong, to be loyal, to be respected.
“I—” She falters momentarily, then steadies herself. “Thank you, Captain Hirako.”
He pulls a face at that. “Don’t get all formal on me now.”
Despite herself and her typical respect for what amounts to the Gotei 13 hierarchy, Momo feels both corners of her mouth involuntarily twitch upwards— just slightly, just enough. Shinji notices, because of course he does, because he always does.
“There it is,” he says, pointing a long, dexterous finger at her in his usual lazy fashion. “That’s the face I was lookin’ for.”
Her faint smile disappears immediately from her visage, like it was never there in the first place at all. “I’m quite certain that I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure, you don’t.”
She huffs softly, but there’s no real heat behind it. For a lengthy moment, neither of them speaks, the sound of smooth jazz working overtime to fill the silence that lingers. Then:
“…Thank you,” she says. The words are quiet, almost reluctant, but real.
Shinji doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just like he doesn’t tend to make a big deal out of anything (especially paperwork deadlines). He just nods his head affirmatively, like this entire exchange has been the most natural thing in the world; like everything had turned out exactly as he had expected when he had given her the most ridiculous orders in the universe.
“Anytime, Lieutenant.”
Momo stands there for a second longer, fidgeting somewhat awkwardly for a brief second, and then bows her head slightly in a sign of outward respect for her superior. “I’ll return to my duties, then.”
“Try not to overdo it,” he calls after her, an unspoken ‘because I sure won’t be’ lingering there in the air afterwards as the jazz record changes songs, changing rhythm along with it.
She pauses at the sliding door after turning on her heel and opening it, glancing back at her lazy Captain, who’s returned to examining his vinyl record casings.
“I won’t,” she says.
It’s not entirely true, because she'll always work herself to the bone. It's just who she is.
But it’s at least more sincere than it was before.
Later on, as the day’s winds die down and the dusk sky turns to a lovely nostalgic color, Momo catches her reflection again in a window while walking some files to another section of the division barracks. This time, she doesn’t just take a brief glance in the glassy surface; she stops what she’s doing fully and looks, really looks.
It’s undeniable that her hair frames her face differently now— lighter, bouncier, softer. It moves whenever she does courtesy of the new layers, and it catches the fading daylight in a way that makes it look… alive. She lifts a hand, brushing a strand of her bangs back; when she releases it, it falls naturally back into place.
For a moment, she just stands there.
Then, slowly— quietly—
Momo smiles.
And this time, she doesn’t hide it.