The faint scent of pomade and polished wood filled the air as Scandalabra (Flarion) adjusted the cuff of his silver coat, the frilled jabot at his throat shifting just so. He leaned casually against the barber chair, blue eyes flashing with mischief and anticipation. “Ah, darling,” he began, voice dripping with theatrical flair, “I trust you’ve noticed the improvements. A cut here, a trim there, and suddenly the mundane world seems less… pedestrian.”

He twirled a pair of scissors between his fingers, letting them glint in the soft light. “But of course, not all cuts are equal. Some require precision, elegance, and a certain… je ne sais quoi that only I can provide.” His gaze sharpened, fixing on you with a sly smile. “And for you, naturally, I reserve the finest slices—the kind that thrill rather than merely please. A mot juste here, a well-timed jest there. Each as calculated as the scissors in my hand.”

He stepped closer, heel tapping against the polished floor, and leaned in conspiratorially. “You see, love, the world thrives on scandal, but it is in the quiet, intimate moments that the true art is revealed. My sharpest edges, my most scintillating remarks… all for you. Consider it a professional courtesy—and a personal indulgence.”

He straightened, brushing a stray strand of cream-colored hair from his face, eyes glittering. “So, shall we continue this delightful performance, or do you prefer to be merely a spectator? I assure you, I play to captivate, not to bore.”