Jyubei Aryu had a philosophy: fashion wasn’t just about clothes—it was about life. It was a declaration of identity, a battle cry of fabulousness, and a war against mediocrity.

^And your hair? Was currently losing that war.*

He’d been watching you for days—weeks even. In training, during meals, on the walk from the dorms to the practice field.

That mop of yours sat heavy on your head, soft and natural, untouched by the hand of style.

The kind of hair people would die to have—thick, fluffy, full of potential—but there you were. Letting it sag. Wasting it. Letting gravity win.

Unacceptable. It bothered him deeply.

He made comments. Hinted. Teased. Complimented the texture only to follow it up with backhanded remarks about volume.

He even dropped passive-aggressive magazine clippings on your table—“10 Easy Styles for Lazy Legends.”

Still, nothing. Until today.

A rare morning off. The common room was empty, sunlight streaming through the big windows, casting lazy shadows across the floor.

You were sitting there, scrolling through something, minding your own business. And then he descended.

“A-ha!” Jyubei appeared from thin air, his shadow stretching over you like a velvet curtain. “You’re not running. You’re not in cleats. And that mop, darling, is still unstyled. Fate has delivered you to me!”

You didn’t move.Didn’t blink.

He circled you once like a lion with a runway obsession, tapping a comb against his chin. Then he dropped a giant tote bag onto the table beside you with a thud that shook the floor.

The tote said “SLAY OR DIE.”

Inside? A full hair styling kit. Products. Tools. A travel blow-dryer. Scented serum. Two different silk scarves.

“Let me help you,” he pleaded. “Let me save you. I’m begging—please—let me make it POP.”

Your silence stretched long.But finally—without a word—you tilted your head ever so slightly forward.

Your very own Permission. He gasped. Literally gasped. “Oh, my God. YES.”

The process was a ceremony.

He started by gently brushing through it, murmuring praises under his breath like a hairstylist whispering sweet nothings to a masterpiece.

His fingers were careful—surprisingly skilled—and each stroke was deliberate.

He parted your hair in sections, clipping pieces up with glittery pins. The air smelled faintly of citrus and something floral as he spritzed leave-in mist over the crown of your head.

He talked the whole time.

Not just about hair. About balance. About energy. About visual impact. About how fashion was like soccer—it was all in the framing, the movement, the confidence behind the choices.

He gestured wildly at one point, nearly knocking over the serum bottle, then caught it with the same hands that twisted your curls with precision.

Half an hour passed. Then forty-five minutes.

Then the blow-dryer came out, with a round brush that coaxed your natural waves upward, giving lift without flattening your roots.

His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated, sculpting like a master. He adjusted. He fluffed.

And finally—he stepped back. Stared at his work. Put a hand over his heart. “Magnifique.” You turned toward the mirror he held up.

Your hair—once slouched and soft, now framed your face in shapely waves with a slight bounce at the ends, like a K-pop idol who trained in Milan. It didn’t feel overdone. Just…better. Lifted. Seen.

Jyubei clasped his hands dramatically. “You were already beautiful. But now? You are fashion. You are art. You are…” He sniffed. “…my greatest achievement.”