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It had only been a few months after Mob started working for Reigen that the kid first noticed a few strands of white hair on the man’s otherwise blonde head.
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As a naive 10-year-old, Shigeo only knew some aspects of how the world worked: he knew that the earth revolved around the sun, the moon revolved around the earth, baby frogs are called tadpoles, he could exorcise spirits, and that Master Reigen was one of the wisest adults he had ever met.
Shigeo—or “Mob,” as he had been nicknamed—had accompanied his mentor, the Greatest Psychic of the 21st Century, Reigen Arataka, on yet another exorcism job after becoming his student just a few months prior.
There had been a powerful spirit—a water spirit possessing a water cooler that was feasting off of the stress of office workers—one of whom Reigen allowed Mob to take care of since the man was “saving his spiritual powers for a really scary one.”
Afterwards, Mob had been tired using quite a bit of psychic energy to perform the exorcism and so Reigen was kind enough to give him a piggy-back ride back home to his family.
Reigen often walked Mob back home after their exorcism jobs, mostly due to Mob’s mother’s insistence on bringing him home safe, so the occasional piggy-back ride wasn’t out of the ordinary.
What was out of the ordinary, however, was the color of Reigen’s hair.
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As Reigen carried Mob on his back through the sunset streaked sidewalks from their usual ramen spot to Mob’s house, the child was attempting to fend off sleep.
Reigen was talking about how excellent a job Mob had done that evening, and to keep up the great work, so that they could go out for ramen more often.
To remain awake, Mob sat up a little, instead of resting his head on Reigen’s shoulder, choosing to instead stare at the back of the man’s head while responding.
“...Thank you, Master. When do you want me to come in next?”
Reigen, noticing Mob leaning back a bit, turned his head slightly to talk to him, smiling as he does, “You’re welcome, kid. I’ll have to check my calendar, but I think Tuesday,” he turns his head to face forward again, “Maybe Monday, I’m not really sure. You’re welcome to come by if you want.”
When Reigen had turned his head back and forth, the lingering sunlight highlighted not only the blonde in his hair, but also a few… lighter strands?
Mob fought the curious childish instinct to grab at what seemed to be almost white in color, just for closer inspection.
Another thing he knew about the world was that people sometimes had different hair colors, or multiple hair colors, or changed hair colors.
His grandparents all had gray or graying hair when he spent time with them, but in pictures from the past, they had black hair like him.
He knew that sometimes older people had white hair too.
Was… was his master getting old? Should he be worried?
“Master,” he asked suddenly, “...how old are you?”
“...I, uh, I’ll be turning 24 in a few months or so. Why do you ask?”
“Is that considered old?”
Reigen turned his head again, nearly stopping their journey as he responds, a scoff in his voice, “...Old? Well, not really.”
Reigen faces forward again, the light yet again catching those white hairs, as he begins to spew his classic Reigen Arataka wisdom, “See, Mob, to someone your age, everyone seems so old. It’s the same for me. Everyone older than me is considered old… especially those quadruple my age. Like actual old people. I am in my 20s, the prime of my youth, so to speak, which is an age-group that the majority of people would not consider old. …Did that answer your question?”
Mob mentally mulls over Reigen’s wisdom, “...Yes, that did answer my question. But, um, I have another one.”
To this, Reigen turns his head towards the boy, slowing down his walking, “...Yeah? What is it?”
Not wanting to offend his incredibly wise and young teacher, Mob takes a moment to formulate his next question, “...Do people always change hair color as they get older?”
From what Mob can see, Reigen’s face flickers between confusion and genuine consideration, “...Well… yeah. Sometimes.”
Reigen faces forward again, doing the same song and dance as before, continuing their journey, “...It really just… depends on the person. Sometimes people use chemicals or markers or something to change their hair color—that’s called dyeing, d-y-e, not d-i-e. Sounds the same but means something completely different. Don’t d-y-e your hair until you’re nearly an adult, alright kid? And have a professional do it so you don’t damage your hair.”
Reigen pauses for about a minute as they cross the street, continuing once they are safely on the other side, “...Or sometimes, as people get older, their hair color just… changes. Goes from whatever their natural hair color is—blonde, black, brunette, redhead—to white or gray. This typically only happens when people are getting old, as per our recent conversation topic. Like old old. Like… I dunno, maybe around 40s, 50s at the earliest? It really depends on the person,”
Reigen slows down, his footsteps nearly halting, and turns to look at Mob, his eyebrow raised in curiosity, “…Why do you ask anyway?”
Mob, sheepish, finally admits, “...I think there’s some white hairs on your head, Master.”
The realization hits Reigen’s face with a sudden flush of slight embarrassment.
He fully stops walking and the man’s mouth drops slightly as he tries to come up with a response, “...Ah. Well… Are you sure? Because blonde hair is sometimes very light—yeowch!”
Mob, ashamed, holds out a single hair from Reigen’s head, and shows it to him.
The strand, once the light hits it, is at least partially white, surrounded on either end with the blonde, the two colors transitioning seamlessly into each other, with the smallest bit of blonde closest to where the hair was pulled from the scalp.
Quietly, the child apologizes, “...Sorry,” and buries his face in the man’s shoulder, keeping an eye out for his reaction as Reigen gently takes the hair from him to inspect further.
Mob had never seen the man so contemplative, holding the hair against the light, as if he was seeing it for the first time.
For a moment, Mob wonders if Reigen didn’t even realize he had white hairs to begin with.
After a long, agonizing moment, Reigen tosses the strand of hair from his hand onto the ground, his expression shifting to something between curiosity and… amusement?
He then gently sets Mob down on the sidewalk, releasing him from the piggy-back ride, then turns to fully face him, kneeling in front of him, “...Hey, it’s okay, kid. But don’t pull my hair out again, alright?”
Mob, solemnly, staring at his shoes, mumbling, “...Okay. …Sorry, I just wanted to show you.”
Reigen, sighs, with that okay serious chat time tone that Mob has been starting to pick up on from their short time working together, “...It’s fine. I’m not mad at you. You were curious. It’s a perfectly normal kid thing to do.”
Mob, still staring at his shoes like they’re the most interesting thing in the world, sheepishly replies, “...But why is your hair white if you’re not old old, like you said?”
Reigen, patiently, “...Look at me, Mob. It’s okay.”
After a moment, Mob obeys, lifting his head and stares directly at the man.
With the fleeting sunlight striking Reigen differently than it does in the stark office lighting, Mob notices some details about the man that he somehow hadn’t before.
The slight dark circles under his eyes.
The slight crease in his brow.
Even the few white hairs sticking out of the top of his blonde head like tiny antennae.
He looks… tired.
And, if Mob had a larger vocabulary for someone his age, he would say Reigen looks weary, worn-out, or perhaps even harboring an ancient soul far beyond its vitality.
Despite his incredible people-reading skills, Reigen mistakes Mob’s unintentional staring for feeling ashamed, to which the man sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder, grounding him, and calmly says, “...There’s another way hair can change colors. It’s due to stress.”
Reigen removes his hand from Mob's shoulder in order to wave it hand around while he talks, as if the air around him will give him the words he needs, “Stress is like… worrying. A lot. About something. This… something can be many things, like an upcoming test or… not knowing if the ramen shop will have your favorite ingredient in stock or… at least for me… money.”
Wisely, Mob inquires, “...You worry about money?”
“Yes,” Reigen admits, “When you’re an adult, money is just one of those things you have to worry about.”
Mob turns his head slightly, mimicking an action he saw a dog do once when it seemed to be confused, “Why is that?”
Unbeknownst to Mob, Reigen contemplates how much he needs to explain the complexities of a class-based society, capitalistic economy, and the modern world’s current reliance on the fluctuating value of money to a 10-year-old child whom he should definitely be paying right now instead of forgoing child labor laws.
But, in this moment, he instead tells him, “Well… things cost money, as you already know. Your parents have jobs, which give them money, which they can use to buy things for you and your little brother, like toys and food and clothes and all of the expenses of having a house to live in. And, if someone does not make enough money from their job, then they can’t pay for things like housing, electricity, books, food, and so on.”
Mob takes a long moment to answer, taking into consideration all of the things his teacher just told him about the world, “...Does that mean you can’t afford those things, Master, if you’re so worried about money?”
Reigen looks like he just bit his tongue by accident, “Well, yes but no, well… I can afford those things, but, um, barely.”
At the slightly worried expression on Mob’s face, Reigen quickly reassures him, “But, but, I should emphasize that, since you started working for me, I’ve had to worry about affording those things less, which is a good thing, I should add.”
And then Master Reigen plasters on a slightly strained and painted-on smile that Mob has seen several times at this point when they talk to clients, which he’s beginning to understand likely translates to “please believe me, I swear.”
Mob slightly narrows his eyes at him, reading right through him, “...So you couldn’t afford these things before I started working for you?”
Reigen visibly relaxes, albeit in a caught-red-handed way rather than in an “aha I fooled you” way, to which he reaches over and ruffles Mob’s hair for a moment, then retracts his hand, “...That’s right, kid. You’re a sharp one for piecing that together.”
Mob smiles slightly at the praise, but then his brows furrow slightly as he asks another question, “But, if you’re worried less now, why is some of your hair white still?”
Instinctually, Mob expects his teacher to spout something related to his spiritual powers, about things that happen in adulthood, or about how he’s incredibly wise for his young age and that’s why.
But, instead, Mob is surprised when Reigen says, with his infinite wisdom, “Hair grows over time. I’m sure you’ve noticed it gets longer over time. Now, I’m not an expert on hair or anything, but…”
Reigen reaches up and plucks a hair from his own head, somehow perfectly finding one of the white ones, and holds the two ends with each hand, straightening it out so that they can fully see the colors within it.
Luckily, the summer sunlight has somehow not faded during this important lesson.
While holding the hair with his other fingers, Reigen points at one end of the strand, “Hair grows from your scalp—that’s the skin on your head—and it grows maybe a half an inch or so every month. During that timeframe, think of hair like… tree rings—did ya learn about that yet in school?”
Mob nods, so Reigen continues, “Yeah, okay, it’s kinda like that. The different colors in the hair relate to however long that piece of hair has been growing out. I like to keep my hair shorter, so it’s probably… about maybe eight months or so that this piece has been growing out. So, in other words, this strand of hair is a visual representation of the entire year so far since New Year’s. …Still following along?”
Mob nods again, the metaphor making sense to his young brain, so Reigen continues, “Okay, so, this end,” he points to one end of the strand, where the color is blonde and remains as such for about 1 ½ inches of hair, “This is the oldest part of the hair. It represents, I’d say… the first few months of this year. At that point of time, I had a decent enough amount of clients—the new year and all that resolution stuff really makes people very reflective and also stressed, so they would come to me with their issues. Anyway, the money was pretty decent because of that, so I figured it would stay that way, for at least a little bit. In short, I didn’t have to worry, so the hair stays my natural blonde. …Still with me there, kid?”
Mob responds, “Yes. Does the beginning of the year always bring in more clients?”
Reigen sucks in a breath, “...Well, it was my first New Year’s working in this job, to be honest with you, so… I hope so, going forward.”
He smiles at the kid, grateful.
After a moment, he continues, “So that was the beginning of the year.”
He then moves his free finger to point at the white section of the hair, which is longer than the previous blonde section but not by much, perhaps only longer by about ½ an inch or so, “...Which means that this is about… springtime, ish, until you started working for me earlier this summer.”
Now, logically, to young Mob, this makes sense.
Master Reigen would not have to worry as much about money once Mob entered the picture and started helping him out.
But, emotionally, the indication is that Mob’s mere existence inadvertently made Master Reigen’s life easier and less stressful, to which tears begin to prick in the corners of Mob’s eyes.
In an instant, Reigen’s expression shifts from his wise, teaching one, to one of slight concern and sympathy, immediately discarding the strand of hair on the ground, and gently putting his hands on Mob’s shoulders, grounding the kid, “...Hey, what’s wrong?”
With big round eyes, he looks directly at Reigen, a slight, bittersweet smile gracing his young face, “...Nothing. I just… I’m happy to have helped you worry less… about money and stuff.”
At that, Reigen gives a warm smile, hands ever so slightly twitching, wanting to pull the kid into a hug, “...Ah, thanks, Mob. I do genuinely appreciate it, y’know.”
Mob reaches out to hug him, to which Reigen returns the hug.
From this embrace, Mob asks, “...So the rest of the hair was blonde, so does that mean you’re less stressed now?”
Mob can hear the smile in Reigen’s voice, “...Yeah, kid. It sure does.”
They then break apart from their brief hug, to which Reigen stands up, his knees and back both crackling in response.
With a very slight, nearly inaudible but otherwise identifiable hint of a laugh, Mob jests, “Master, I thought you weren't old!”
Reigen, after a moment, laughs with him, giving a sharp but joyful laugh, “...Well, with the white hair and crackling bones, maybe I am an old, wise man after all!”
They share a short chuckle, then Reigen holds out a hand, “...Want to walk the rest of the way?”
Mob considers his options for a moment, then decides, “Sure,” and grabs his hand.
The two then continue walking to Mob’s home, with Reigen mentioning, “Be sure to tell me if you’re getting too tired to walk, alright?”
In a rare move, despite how much he fears having too much fun or too much laughter or too much joy that may cause his psychic powers to go haywire, Mob, in a completely deadpan voice, replies with, “...Are you sure your old, wise bones can handle it, Master?”
To this, Reigen doubles over in laughter.
...Perhaps Mob should mention this joke to his little brother when he gets home later.