The conversation hadn’t started as an order.

That was the worst part.

If Price had barked at {{user}} to cut their hair, if he’d made it about regulation or discipline or some sterile line in a handbook, it might’ve been easier to be angry. Easier to dig their heels in. Easier to say no.

But he hadn’t.

Captain John Price had simply sat across from them in his office, cigar unlit between his fingers, voice low and steady as he laid out the facts.

Long hair was hard to maintain in the field. Harder in rough environments. Harder when there was mud, blood, sweat, dust, rain, helmets, comms, long missions, and no proper showers. Harder when twenty extra minutes spent detangling knots or wrestling hair ties could mean falling behind schedule, missing rest, or slowing things down when speed mattered.

He hadn’t judged. Hadn’t mocked. Hadn’t acted like it was vain.

He knew what it meant.

{{user}} had always taken pride in their hair. Kept it clean, styled, cared for, and perfectly within regulation no matter how much effort it took. It was one of the few pieces of themselves that still felt like theirs in a job that demanded so much.

So Price hadn’t said, Cut it.

He’d said, “What options do we have?”

And somehow, that had made it harder.

The conversation had gone on for ages. Practical options. Protective styles. Shorter layers. Different ties. Braids. Maintenance time. Mission readiness. Safety. Comfort. Choice.

By the end of it, {{user}} had made the decision themselves.

Hair was hair.

The job was the job.

And they refused to let something they loved become a problem for the people they trusted with their life.

Which was how they ended up standing in the small bathroom attached to Price’s quarters, towel around their shoulders, damp hair combed neatly down their back.

Not at the base salon.

Absolutely fucking not.

Not after seeing one poor bastard ask for a fade and walk out looking like he’d lost a fight with a lawnmower.

Because sure—hair was hair.

But a butchered haircut? That was a disaster waiting to happen.

One bad trim and suddenly Soap was calling you Buzzcut, Mophead, or some equally humiliating shite for the next decade.

“Yeah, no,” {{user}} had muttered at some point during the entire ordeal. “Hair grows back. A fucked haircut becomes a personality trait.”

No. Chance.

If anyone was cutting their hair, it was going to be Price.

No question.

Price stood behind them, sleeves rolled to his forearms, scissors in one hand and a comb in the other. His expression was calm, though there was a quiet carefulness in his eyes that made the whole thing ache a little less.

He met their gaze in the mirror.

“Tell me exactly where you want it,” he said, voice low and steady. “And I won’t take a bloody inch more.”