“Hurry up. I truly am starting to regret letting you near my head with scissors.” He grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. You’re sitting on the bathroom counter behind him, your legs wrapped around his waist and a devious smile on your lips. He doesn’t trust that.

His hair is a permanent spiky, stubborn mess. No matter what he, or anyone, tries, it just can’t be tamed. He’s come to just not care about it—there’s nothing he can do, and he’s a man with more important business to attend to.

But when you asked, so excitedly, if you could cut his hair, something possessed him to say yes. He needed a haircut anyway—but he’s not sure why he trusted you to do it. “Try not to decapitate me, while you’re at it.”