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Business had been booming for Jandelaine after he decided to travel to Tural for the first time. Tuliyollal, with its rainbow tapestries, tortilla-wrapped delicacies and salt-laden gusts, was clearly a city with discerning citizens. Manes, mops and locks clamoured for his skilled haircutting all week long.
One such day of inspired handiwork, after he had finished his lunch at Xbalyav Ty’e, he headed to the local inn for an appointment the proprietor had arranged for him. Qelmarik, the client’s name read on his paper stub.
Inside the inn, Jandelaine knocked at the door number that had been jotted down next to the client’s name. The door opened to a surprisingly hairless customer.
‘Jandelaine, yes? Haircutter supergood?’ A moblin eyed him curiously, his eyes concealed behind thin-slitted goggles.
‘I am Jandelaine, and Jandelaine is me. At your service!’ He bowed, scissors in hand and raised. The moblin was not frightened by his display, which gladdened Jandelaine. He entered the inn room and closed the door behind him. ‘Do I have the pleasure of addressing Qelmarik?’
‘Yes, Qelmarik!’
‘Excellent. So, pray tell, what masterwork of hair would you have me bring forth, good Qelmarik?’
The moblin pointed a gloved hand to his own presumably-bald head. As with the rest of his body (save for his ears), it was encased inside an iron-and-leather suit. ‘Upbraid please!’
Jandelaine raised an eyebrow. ‘Pardon?’
Qelmarik pointed to his scalp, tapping the iron plate noisily. ‘Upbraid please!’
‘...I assume you refer to the act of braiding hair, and not upbraiding as in disparaging you—’
Vehement nodding on Qelmarik’s part interrupted him. ‘Hairbraiding!’
With a smile that hid his confusion, Jandelaine tilted his head. ‘My apologies, good sir, but much as my hands tingle to perform the requested improvement, you… You have no hair to speak of. Unless, of course, you mean to remove your mask?’
Qelmarik shook his head just as vehemently. ‘Mask is onstaying! Necessary for lifehaving!’
‘Then, there is no service of mine that I can provide you,’ Jandelaine said, lowering his scissors slightly.
‘No… Wait!’ The trinkets and artifacts adorning the moblin’s large backpack jingled as he hopped in panic. ‘Haircutting must take place! How about… owncutting?’
‘You would have me cut my own hair!?’ His brow knit, Jandelaine glanced into a mirror across the room. He saw his perfectly sculpted splash of purple-to-salmon hair in the reflection. ‘Absolutely not!’
Qelmarik grew more agitated. ‘Ah! Then… Then! What about, cutting hair of busyfolk outside?’
‘Without an appointment? We cannot simply walk up to a random passerby and insist upon a haircut!’ The mere idea is insulting! ‘My creations are born from the heart’s unanswered desires, its longing for freedom and rebirth. They are not menu options to be decided on a whim after being accosted in the street!’
‘Oh… Oh!...’
Qelmarik held his hands to his head in despair, but Jandelaine’s inflamed ego would not allow him sympathy. Stowing his scissors, he pivoted and opened the room's door.
‘If you have no need of my services, I shall go to another. I bid you a good day!’
Jandelaine’s temper had cooled by the time he next ran into Qelmarik, a few days afterwards.
The appointment was once again at the inn, for a certain Mr. Hairhaver. Jandelaine was not in the habit of judging his customers so he had disregarded his intuition about the client’s identity. He was greeted by the moblin’s masked face at the room door once more.
‘Ah, good afternoon, Qelmarik,’ Jandelaine said with a slight bow of recognition. ‘I trust that this meeting is not to be a mockery of my craft?’
‘No! Qelmarik bring hairthing for scissorcutting!’
The moblin pointed to a mannequin head that had been placed at the room's centre table, complete with a long green wig. Its face was turned towards the lapping waves outside the inn as if it could take in the view.
Jandelaine chuckled. ‘I believe you yet misunderstand me, good sir. What dreams can a mannequin proffer, that they may guide me towards their rebirth?’
At this, Qelmarik deflated like a balloon. ‘But… Please…! Qelmarik has graveneedings for haircutter…’
Jandelaine had half of a mind to turn away for a second time, but he was in unusually high spirits that afternoon. The sight of the moblin in despair tugged at his heartstrings. Alright — Just this once!
With a sigh, he strutted up to the mannequin, scissors at the ready. ‘Very well. I shall deploy the newest creation I have envisioned, using this mannequin as a tool for practicing.’
The moblin jumped with excitement. As Qelmarik breathed heavily through his mask, Jandelaine got to work immersed in pshhhh and shkohhh noises. However, without a client to question while performing his haircutting, the work was trifling, and boring besides.
‘Tell me, Qelmarik. Why do you wish to see me perform so ardently?’
‘Ah… Qelmarik like seeing supergood haircutting. Makes beautyhaving artworks. Shows deepinsides and secretwants. And also, in Earthenshire, there is needhaving…’
Slowly, the moblin unfolded before Jandelaine the true reason for his request, as the artisan snipped and tugged away at the mannequin.
Where Qelmarik hailed from, skilled artisans were provided a residence by the local moblins and cared for as "potsworn". In exchange, the potsworn would focus solely on their craft to make beautiful works. Not a bad proposition, not at all! Although I would venture that freedom to roam is a vital ingredient for creativity…
‘Shinecrafters lack haircutter, so they do owncutting, but it’s never supergood. Qelmarik thinks Earthenshire needs haircutter to make soulshining hairstyles!’
‘I see…’ Jandelaine spun the mannequin head to showcase his work. ‘And voilà! ‘Tis complete. I call it, the Bold and the Braid!’
‘Oh! Ooooh!’ Qelmarik clapped, a sound muffled by their gloves. ‘Jandelaine really is supergood hairmaking cut-knower!’ He turned to Jandelaine and extended a hand. ‘Jandelaine can come to Earthenshire and stay!’
I thought as much. With a sad smile, Jandelaine shook his head. ‘My apologies, but I am, and always will be, a roaming artiste.’
Qelmarik’s hand dropped and his shoulders sagged. Pitiful wheezing escaped his mask.
‘I have a solution in mind, however: I shall teach you the basics of my craft, that you may undertake your task yourself.’
Unaware of the great honour being granted to him, the moblin stared at Jandelaine with a perplexed gasp. ‘Qelmarik, learn haircutting?’
‘Of course.’ Jandelaine grinned. ‘First and foremost, you sought my services because you thought them masterworks, not because of your people’s needs. You sought a beauty that you recognised yourself. That,’ he said, pointing to the moblin’s chest, ‘is your soul waiting to be freed, Qelmarik.’
‘What!?’ Qelmarik shook with an indescribable emotion. ‘But!... Mobbies can’t artmake!... Qelmarik can’t do haircuttings, no mobbie will acceptnod such ungood work…’
In that moment, a scene from Jandelaine’s past flashed before his eyes: his brother, begging him to stay with their family in their Ishgardian manse and continue their traditions.
Young Jandelaine had wavered in the snow, unsure of what he was about to leave behind. He had been hobbled by his perceived inadequacy as a fledgling haircutter. One thing had been certain, however: he loved the craft, the powerful self-expression, the ecstasy of colour, the burst of confidence that it bestowed upon others. He longed to be free and help others do the same. The fire inside of him had not been doused by his brother’s mollifying words.
Even in these foreign, far-off lands, there are souls yearning to be reborn.
Jandelaine knelt, stowed a scissor and placed a hand on Qelmarik’s armour-clad shoulder. ‘Do you not wish to try, my darling? To shape hair into a dazzling display that speaks to the glitter of your heart and the shine of theirs?’
Qelmarik did not push him away or step back. The moblin did not move for a long while, and even his breathing seemed restrained like he had been chained down.
Signalling the end of his struggle, a small tear dripped through the slit of his goggles and he sniffed. ‘Qelmarik wants, but…’ He sniffed again. ‘Qelmarik not supposed to be potsworn, but potsworn carer.’
As if he had shaped it with his scissors, Jandelaine’s grin was as bright as the sun. ‘You shall be a scissorsworn, my friend. I shall cancel my appointments for the day, and we will begin your apprenticeship anon. Although, we shall require the proper environment to do so.’
Jandelaine stood up, stowed his other scissor and clapped twice.
‘To Earthenshire!’