He wedged the cigarette between his lips, his blank expression reflecting itself against the sporadic smudges and stains on the mirror before him. The split ends of his hair spiked down to the back of his neck, he hadn’t recollected it becoming this long. He brings his fingers to the ends of his hair, the gritty sensation of his ends ground against his fingertips.

When times were simpler, the dry and unkempt ends of his hair were once on top of his head. He used to keep it short, it was all he knew. There was a layer of normalcy in the routine. Firstly, he’d realize he needed a haircut. Secondly, he’d go to a barbershop and have the barber mundanely inquire on the subject. Thirdly, he’d patiently wait in the seat and have his hair trimmed. Finally, his hair would be just the way he liked it. How he yearned for such normalities in his life.

Since becoming a Devil Hunter, he had lost track to care for such a trivial thing. The result of his forgetfulness were the long navy tresses that trickled down from the roots on his head. He wasn’t able to pinpoint his feelings on the matter.

The sound of his lighter clinking intercepted his thoughts. You lit the tip of his cigarette, the yellow-ish orange embers raring beneath the grey ashes.

“Should I cut it?” he questioned.