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"Light-kun, I don't wish to have hair anymore."
"What?"
"Didn't you hear me? I don't wish to have hair anymore."
"I heard you the first time. But why?"
"It's a prison."
"Um, okay. Well. We can fix that if you'd like."
L's midnight locks, illuminated starry white with flecks of dandruff, come cascading down, fluttering past his shoulders and landing on the trash bag placed below. It's good Light isn't a hairdresser. He's hacking away at L's hair in choppy chunks, to make it short enough to buzz.
He'd explained it to Light: why he doesn't like his hair. It's the way it gets greasy and how his scalp itches when he sweats in the summer heat. Mello always points out when it gets frizzy, which is a lot of the time. He just doesn't want hair anymore, and Light's all too happy to strip him of this, as it stokes something deep inside him―the wicked parts of him he pretends not to harbor.
When he's done shaving L's head, he kisses the crown of it. L doesn't smile; he just stares forward in the mirror, pensively. "Thank you, Light."
"Go shower now, baby. I'll be waiting for you."