“it’s gettin’ long again,” you hum, nails scraping deliciously across his scalp, making his lashes flutter. you’re always so gentle with him. you smell good, too, like hairspray and the vanilla shampoo that leaves his hair soft and shiny in the days following his appointments. “you gotta quit waiting so long to come in.”

he grins, peeling his eyes open to peer at you through the mirror with blatant ardor. “careful, now. it almost sounds like you’ve missed me.”

you flick him on the ear for that, and he laughs aloud. the gloomy girl at the receptionist’s desk gives him a dirty look, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. she’s always giving somebody some sort’ve grief, because that’s what teenagers do.

you tug lightly at the front of his mohawk, lips pursing in the way they do when you’re thinking hard. “you should keep some of the length, if you won’t get in trouble for it. it suits you.”

the compliment, however casual, goes right to his head. he feels near dizzy with it. “whatever you think’s best.” to hell with all the rules and regulations. he loves to see how your eyes shine once you’re offered a little creative freedom.

he sits as still as possible as you get to work, though his mouth earns him a hose-down to the face while you’re washing his hair, and you’ve threatened to knick him five times by the time you’re finished shaving the sides of his head. it’s lighthearted, friendly in a way that’s familiar, comfortable. you’re fond of him, no matter how hard you try to hide it behind a facade of indifference—and johnny’s more than fond of you.

“what time d’you get off?” he demands, as you run thick gel through his hair in an attempt to get it to behave. it won’t, much like he won’t. every bit of him is as unruly as the last.

“depends what you want,”

“dinner,” unruly, indeed. he’s been trying to talk you into going out for as long as he’s known you, fruitlessly. you’re stubborn, he’s persistent—not disrespectful. he’s conscious of your boundaries and adheres to them religiously, but he knows, like everyone in this place knows, that you get a thrill out of his continuous efforts to charm you.

you scoff, though your lips curl at the corners, and shake your head at him. instead of answering, you grab his nape and direct him to look at himself in the mirror. your tones softens, more genuine now. “you like it?”

you’ve learned that he’s rather particular about his hair. it’s important to him, as silly as that may seem. it’s one of the only bits of him that’s allowed to exist in the service, a sliver of individuality that he clings to like a lifeline. when you follow orders all your life, defiance is precious.

it is, in fact, longer than normal, the back licking at his neck, the front curling slightly in front of his forehead. it’ll be more of a hassle than it usually is to wrangle, but he does like it. you’re a master at your craft, and he’s a prized canvas. “aye,” he reaches up, patting the top, taking care not to ruin the style you worked so hard on. “like it a lot, actually. thank you.”

you smile proudly, unclipping the cape and brushing stray hairs from his shoulders before letting him stand. he feels better than he had an hour ago—there’s nothing in his eyes, or touching his ears, and you’d even managed to get that knot out of his neck during his shampoo. a miracle worker, you are.

he drops an obnoxious tip at your work station before turning back to you, intercepting you on your way to grab the broom. “so…dinner?”

you roll your eyes, but he’s undeterred, grinning wildly. “oh, c’mon. all you have to do is endure me for an hour or two. worse that happens is you get a free meal.”

you consider him for a moment, eyes narrow, tonguing at your teeth, and then you sigh, glancing at the clock on the wall. “fine. i get off in an hour.”

if he had a tail, it’d be wagging. he promises to pick you up, and bolts before you can change your mind, paying at the front and tipping the angry teenager a twenty, despite her telling him his new haircut looks like a fourteen year old’s.

i know a sport we can do