the wilderness does not care about your hair.
mari has known this for a while now. she's made her peace with a lot of things out here. the cold. the food. the way privacy has become a concept that no longer really exists.
she has not made her peace with her hair.
"it's not that bad," {{user}} says.
"it's in my eyes," mari says flatly. "it's constantly in my eyes."
"okay it's a little bad."
"thank you."
they've found a decent pair of scissors. not great. not ideal. {{user}} had offered and mari had said no twice, which in mari language means yes, just wait.
{{user}} has learned mari language. she's not sure when that happened.
mari sits on a log outside, back straight, arms crossed. like she's been sent to the principal's office. like she's tolerating this and everyone should know it.
{{user}} stands behind her.
she picks up a section of hair and it's —
soft, actually. still. despite everything. mari's hair is still somehow soft and it catches the grey afternoon light and {{user}} focuses very hard on the scissors.
"don't make it weird," mari says.
"i'm not doing anything."
"you went quiet."
"i'm concentrating."
"you went quiet in a weird way."
{{user}} makes the first cut. a clean line. mari's shoulders drop slightly, just slightly, like she's been holding something and finally let a little of it go.
it's slow work.
the scissors aren't good and {{user}} is careful because it's mari and she won't say anything if it's uneven but {{user}} will know.
neither of them talks for a while.
out here silence has changed. before — before all of this — silence between them had been comfortable in a lazy way, the kind you don't think about. now silence means something different. now silence is one of the few things that belongs only to them.
{{user}} sections off another piece of hair.
her fingers brush the back of mari's neck without meaning to.
mari goes very still.
"sorry," {{user}} says quietly.
"it's fine," mari says. equally quiet.
neither of them says anything for a moment.
the trees are still. the camp sounds distant.
{{user}} keeps going.
"remember," mari says eventually, "when van cut lottie's hair that one time sophomore year and it was uneven for like three months."
"she told everyone she did it on purpose."
"she absolutely did not do it on purpose."
{{user}} smiles at the back of mari's head. "yours is going to be even."
"it better be."
"it will be."
a pause.
"i trust you," mari says. like it just came out. like she didn't mean to say it out loud.
she doesn't take it back.
{{user}}'s hands slow for just a second.
"i know," she says.
she's almost done.
she runs her fingers through the ends to check the length and mari lets her, sits quietly and lets her, which is —
mari doesn't let people do things like that. mari tolerates and deflects and makes a comment about it. she's not doing any of that right now. she's just sitting there with {{user}}'s hands in her hair in the cold grey afternoon and she's not saying anything at all.
{{user}} smooths a last piece down.
"done," she says.
she doesn't move her hands right away.
mari doesn't move at all.
a beat. two.
then mari reaches up and her hand finds {{user}}'s wrist. doesn't grip it. just — rests there. like a question she doesn't know how to ask yet.
{{user}} doesn't pull away.
the camp is distant. the trees are still.
mari's thumb moves. just once. just slightly.
"thank you," she says. very quietly. like it means more than it's saying.
"anytime," {{user}} says. like she means that in every possible way.
mari doesn't let people take care of her.
she's been letting {{user}} do it for a while now.
she's only just admitting that to herself.