"#i’m gonna write a fic now #blanche and pippa give him a terrible haircut #and then there’s no going back from that" you better!! ;)
Hehe y’all already know I actually had to write this. I was reminded because I’m getting my haircut later today - just a trim, I think, but also the quarantine hair is real. Also, this got angsty? Yikes hehehe... (I remembered Shrewsbury face wound trauma and I went with it). But also enjoy some nice moments between Hal and John. I went with a modern AU because that’s where my mind is stuck right now... Enjoy!
“Pippa!” John exclaimed, in some state between thoroughly uncomfortable and thoroughly amused. “You can’t cut Harry’s hair like that. Here, give the scissors to me,”
“No, John!” Pippa turned her back. “He said that Blanche and I could cut it!”
“Does it look that awful?” Harry asked, somewhere past the point of really caring how it turned out. When forced to spend time with his sisters, eight and ten respectively, there was only so much he could do to keep them entertained.
“Don’t listen to him, Harry,” Blanche piped up. “I think you look lovely,”
“Like a prince!” Pippa agreed.
“Prince of botched haircuts,” John retorted.
“Oh, enough, John!” Blanche sighed. “If you don’t like it then you can leave!”
“Dad’s going to kill all of you,” John crossed his arms, head held high.
“No, it’ll just be Harry,” Thomas said from the sofa, not even making an effort to glance at the war-zone that was the vanity.
“Like usual,” Humphrey said.
“Very funny,” Harry said, though deep down he knew it was true. “Can I see it now?”
“Just a minute!” Pippa said, pointing the blade of the scissors dangerously close to Harry’s eyes as she cut his fringe further up his forehead. He was sitting facing the wall rather than the mirror, which he came to regret the longer he sat in the little chair his sisters kept him in. Perhaps if he had sight of his head he would have stopped them before it got too bad. All the same, John might have been overreacting.
There was something about being the eldest sibling that would forever be painstakingly awful. Responsibility is the curse of all firstborns and the lack of it seems, in the eyes of their parents, to be their greatest vice. How much responsibility can a boy reasonably take on without resorting to having his hair mangled by two young girls for the sake of small amusement? To his father and to the public it would look like he had a breakdown. It wasn’t too far from the truth. Let the tabloids have their fun.
“There!” Blanche exclaimed as she dropped her pair of scissors onto the vanity.
“All done!” Pippa said nearly right after, shoving a small mirror into Harry’s hand. “See!”
It wasn’t that awful. From a different angle, no, it really was the most awful thing one could have laid eyes on. But from the front... oh, never mind. It’ll grow out. Eventually. However, it is important to remember, in the name of courtesy, one must smile upon receiving poor but earnest service, give them a word of thanks, and then, in the secrecy of more private hours, go about fixing the whole thing for oneself. In the case of this present matter, unfortunately, it seemed unlikely that Harry could fix it and make it look anywhere decent enough for the press, let alone for his father.
“Do you like it?” Pippa asked.
Actually, yes. At that moment, Harry did find himself liking it, not because he really truly liked it, but because it was amusing to him. He liked it because soon all the little boys would want to look like Prince Harry of Monmouth, and venture to get such an awful hairstyle. He liked it because he thought of all of the distraught mothers racing to try and think of a way to make their boys’ heads look somewhat normal. Most of all, he liked it because his father wouldn’t.
“I love it,” Harry said, trying to stifle a laugh. “In fact, I love it so much, I think I’ll show Dad right now,”
He set down the mirror, rose from his chair and left the room. He wasn’t planning on showing anyone, really. Wallowing sounded much better. Or maybe shaving the rest of his hair off. He would decide on the way to his own room.
“Have you lost your mind?” John said, having apparently followed him out.
Maybe Harry had lost his mind, somewhere along the way. He couldn’t quite remember where. But this - this most hideous fashion - was all rather complementary. He had been given a haircut to match the ugliness of his face. It was a move as bold as the scar under his left eye. He didn’t look so much princely anymore as he did deranged.
“Don’t worry,” Harry said as he walked. “I’ll say I did it,”
“You sound ridiculous,” John said.
“I mean, I did decide to have my haircut, didn’t I?” Harry retorted.
“Just leave me alone,” Harry sighed, finally stopping.
“Harry,” John pleaded. “Just sit for a second,”
He unexpectedly did what he was told, from a brother three years his junior. Harry slumped down against the wall and hugged his knees, burying his head between them.
“God, I hate it,” he said, voice muffled. “I have lost my mind, John. What kind of idiot am I?”
“It doesn’t look that bad actually,” John admitted, taking a seat next to his brother on the floor. “At least they didn’t shave half of your head,”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh, despite himself, his head still tucked between his knees. It was true. They were kind to him in that regard.
“So what do you suppose we do about it?” Harry asked, feeling utterly defeated to the point of asking a thirteen year old boy for help.
“Well,” John began, deciding whether he should be brave or mischievous. He eventually decided to be brave. “Humphrey, Thomas, and I could get our hair cut too just like it,”
“Now you sound mad,” Harry picked his head up and pushed his brother gently on the shoulder.
“Or we could make it look like a mad accident,” John suggested, deciding to be mischievous for the sake of a joke. “We could figure out how to make you foam at the mouth or something,”
“Stop,” Harry said, his tone serious. He wouldn’t allow the thought of it, not when he felt mad enough as it was. John was too young to know what trauma really felt like. So was Harry, but yet he had the scars. “It’s not that bad,”
“Alright, alright,” John said. “Well, if it helps any, I’ll get that same haircut too. It will be a deliberate choice, and there is little Dad can say if we both do it,”
“Are you sure?” Harry asked.
“Why not?” John shrugged.
“It’s pretty awful,” Harry said.
“I don’t care,” John said. “It can’t be that bad once you get used to it,”
Harry smiled, perhaps as means of thanks, but then began to laugh. It was a genuine, kind laugh, a laugh that expressed all the love a brother could give, and John joined in.
