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Mistle always admired Ciri’s hair. She would always comment on it, compliment it. And later, much later, she would always play with it. Or—pull it.
Ciri's hands are shaking as she blindly reaches up and hacks a chunk of the length off.
It lands in the sink, curled up like a venomous serpent ready to strike. Ciri looks at it, unseeing, tears blurring her vision.
She swallows back a sob, Mistle's words an oily stain on her memory. She pulls at her hair, cuts off another handful, and another. That one drink. That night she couldn't remember. The night Mistle kept saying nothing happened. The night she—
The scissors fall out of her hand as she curls up over a toilet, retching, gasping, shaking. But her stomach is empty after the previous violent bouts of vomiting.
Why did she even agree to this meeting? She stated a few times already that there is no going back to whatever it was that she and Mistle had. That this was done, a chapter closed, once and for all. She should have known better than to even indulge Mistle in a conversation. She could see the woman was tipsy—and predictably, Mistle was having none of it. She was angry. And between the alcohol and the anger, she finally, finally let it all spill.
Ciri can't believe she could have ever been that stupid. To trust Mistle, of all people, to believe in her version of the events, despite all the warning signs. To allow the woman to coax her into the relationship, to stay with her for those past months—
Another violent attack has Ciri sit against the wall; a weight is pressing against her ribcage, and she’s gasping for air, her shaking arms wrapped around her legs.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Ciri doesn't know how much time passes before she manages to scramble to her feet. She catches her reflection in a mirror and winces. It's a sorry sight—her makeup smudged all over her face, her eyes red and puffy. Her hair—
She gasps. She didn't realise how much of it she chopped off in her attempt to remove every sliver of Mistle from her body, her mind, her life. Her hair now hangs in sorry clumps against her skull, short and limp.
Ciri wraps her arms around her torso as another sob shakes her.
She eventually stumbles out of the bathroom. Her numb fingers find her phone, and a notification pops up. A calendar reminder; an appointment.
The interview.
Fuck.
Emhyr is aiming for another reelection, and so another round of meetings with the press awaits her, a routine part of that despicable dance. Tomorrow is the first act of that charade.
And she just absolutely destroyed her looks.
Her fingers shake as she scrolls through her contacts, looking for her hairdresser's number. It's just past their closing time, but she's praying someone will answer—
But there's nothing but silence, the signal ringing out with no reaction. In panic, she washes her face and grabs a hat and a pair of sunglasses to cover up the results of her outburst as much as possible.
Hopefully someone will still be working.
Twenty minutes later she bangs her fist in desperation against the closed door of the salon. A light still flickers inside and her whole being latches onto this faint hope. Maybe tomorrow is not going to be a total disaster.
She can see the movement inside, and her heart sinks as she recognises the Asshole. The legend of a stylist, the arrogant, full-of-himself, entitled beyond measure jerk who got her friend fired. All the clients, of all genders and orientations are constantly swooning over him; some even remember to mention his talent among all the drooling. But after he was hired and Melody disappeared, Ciri loudly and snottily refused his services. She even tried to get the owner to fire him, but unsuccessfully; Milva only laughed at her, and told her, not unkindly, to fuck off.
Now he's scowling at her across the glass of the door, his lips twisted in a grimace of contempt. Ciri hesitates, but the panic that grips her is stronger than her loathing for the man. She knocks again.
To her relief he unlocks the door, and as soon as they crack open, she barges in and closes them behind her, pressing her head against the cool glass for just a second, her breathing heavy.
"You may have noticed, Your Highness, that we are closed," the Asshole says evenly, his voice aloof.
She turns to him and bites back a response. She's entirely at his mercy, she knows, and she hates it with passion. But all of a sudden the energy that kept her going thus far evaporates. She leans against the door as a bone-aching exhaustion washes over every cell in her body and the fight leaves her altogether.
She takes off her sunglasses, and pulls off her hat.
He flinches at the sight, drawing back a little, his eyes flicking from her face to her hair as he takes her in. She keeps her own gaze lowered, but his scrutiny is nearly a physical sensation and she knows that he sees it all—not only the hair, but the puffiness around her eyes, the remaining smudges of mascara she didn't have the time to properly wash off, her bloodied cuticles.
"I—I have an interview tomorrow," she murmurs. "An important one. I—"
Her voice falters and dies. There is a moment of silence, and she holds her breath. Then, without a word, the Asshole reaches past her and locks the door again. With surprising gentleness he pulls her away from the glass frame and closes the shutters so that the light doesn’t spill onto the street outside. His hand on the small of her back, he leads her to the wash stations. She doesn't need guidance, she knows her way around the place better than he does—she has been coming here for close to five years, after all. But his hand feels solid on her back, supportive in a way she can't remember feeling in a long time and she has no strength left to protest.
With a relieved exhale Ciri sinks into the comfy armchair as he busies himself with preparing the products. She tries to remember his name that she's made a show of ignoring for the past few months. Something of Elvish origin; she recalls one of the regulars, Bruno, a pile of muscles and style, yet soft as a puppy, going on and on longingly about how it suited him, with his tall, lean frame. Ciaran? Cashel?
Cahir. That was it.
He wraps a warmed towel around her back and she can't help but feel a tinge of gratitude at this small gesture. She makes herself comfortable as he opens the taps; his fingers card through her hair and her eyes close on their own accord. His touch is much gentler than she would ever have expected. Maybe this is what sends all the other regulars spiralling into the orbit. Something she wouldn't have had experienced so far, dead set in her righteous anger.
Maybe he has some redeeming qualities.
"Tell me if the water is too hot."
Even his voice is softer, kinder than she expected. It's like he has a split personality; the Asshole is nowhere to be seen, she realises with an unpleasant pang of guilt. Ciri files this thought away to examine later. For now he treats her like a porcelain doll, as if she were to shatter to pieces if not treated with an utmost care.
Which, in her current state, is quite accurate.
Once he's done, he leads her to one of the chairs facing the full length mirrors and disappears somewhere in the back. She sinks into the chair; the guilt still nibbling at her conscience is now joined by a familiar trepidation of anxiety. She closes her eyes and focuses on steadying her breathing. It will be fine. One step at the time. She can do this. She has done it before.
Well, not all of it—not—
She wills herself to not go down that route. Not now. She cannot fall apart in front of him. She’s in a sorry enough state as is.
Ciri hears his steps approaching; he places something on the little table to her right. She opens her eyes to see a mug of coffee—her mug, the one she always uses. She takes it in her shaking hands, and curls her fingers around it, soaking up the comforting warmth. She takes a sip, then blinks in surprise. It's cappuccino, with almond milk. It's what she always drinks. She catches his gaze in the mirror; he is studying her with an inscrutable expression.
"How—how do you know?"
He shrugs. "Part of the job."
She manages a weak smile; the guilt makes her cheeks grow warm. "Thank you."
He only nods, then focuses on examining the mess on her head. She watches him: lips pressed together, carefully touching the sad remains of whatever she hacked off, his fingers separating the limp strands, assessing the damage.
Ciri never paid attention to him before—she was far too busy ignoring him in as ostentatious manner as possible. But now that’s no longer an option. He’s not looking at her, focused entirely on his task, and so she can openly study him. She's never considered him good-looking—he’s all weird angles and sharp edges. But his hands… The longer she watches him, the more she finds herself unable to look away. He has beautiful, long fingers, now carding through her hair—any pianist would have died of envy upon seeing them. She can feel a blush creeping onto her cheeks again and she silently curses herself. The unexplainable kindness he is currently showing her notwithstanding, he’s still a prime jerk—
“What is the interview about?”
She nearly jumps in the chair. His gaze catches hers in the mirror.
“My father’s reelection. A stupid game I’m forced to play.”
His eyebrows rise into an arrogant arch, and there he is, the Asshole incarnate. But his next words shatter this impression yet again. “Do you? Have to play it?”
Ciri frowns. “What do you mean?”
“What image do you want to present?”
Ciri looks at him, then at her reflection. That is a very good question, and one she's had no time to consider amongst the shit-storm of the recent days.
“I thought that mess was irrevocable,” she says quietly.
“You cut off a lot of volume here,” he gently touches the left side of her head, as if afraid to hurt her. “I can’t do anything but trim it really short to give it shape. But there is still room for some...fun.”
There is a hint of something unidentifiable in his voice that makes her thoughts stumble. She just about manages to put a reply together. “What are the options?”
“I can make it short and no-bullshit all around, or—” He pauses, as if hesitating, then finishes, “or I can make it more you.”
Ciri holds his gaze in the mirror. Similarly to his voice, there’s a sentiment there that she cannot dissect; a layer of meaning she can't uncover. She begins to understand what makes him so fascinating to everybody else. Then she mentally kicks herself. It’s a dangerous path to follow; she should know better than to tumble head first into another mistake.
“More me then,” she says curtly.
He only nods, and gets to work. It’s a fascinating sight, this complete concentration, as if nothing else in the world existed right now.
Maybe it doesn’t, Ciri finds herself thinking in the comfortable silence of the small space they share. The world outside is quiet, and it’s easy to believe for a second that this is all there is: her and him, in this little bubble of time. She watches him in open fascination as his hands dance in quick, precise, focused movements, his touch ever so light as he turns her sorry state into—into whatever it is that he sees. She can’t help a shiver of trepidation, mixed with something darker, something deeper. She feels her cheeks growing hot again, and she offers silent thanks to whatever deity for the fact he’s so engrossed in his task that he pays attention to nothing else.
It doesn’t take him long; soon he’s grabbing a hair dryer and Ciri closes her eyes as the hot stream of air hits her. It doesn’t help her much, though; devoid of the sight, her senses focus on his touch, and that’s possibly even worse. She needs a drink. Or three.
Once he’s done drying her hair, he pulls something else out of a drawer; Ciri keeps her eyes closed, but going by the faint smell of hot metal, it’s a straightener. She opens her mouth to protest, but he’s quicker.
“Trust me,” he says, his voice dropping low, and to her surprise Ciri realises that she—does.
Few quick movements later, he’s rubbing some product in her hair; the scent of caramel envelopes her, and she can’t help a smile; it’s her favourite line of products. She’s no longer even surprised at his insight.
“There. Have a look.”
Ciri opens her eyes, and gasps. The left side she butchered is trimmed short, sharp; the other side is an asymmetrical bob, coming down gradually to just below her chin; the longest strand is curled away from her face, to create a playful counterbalance to the shaved side.
It’s spiky, it’s feisty—it’s perfect.
“Wear something very feminine if you want to throw them off balance even further,” he says, looking at her, and this time she has no problems reading his expression. There’s a gleam of pride there of a task well done, but also—admiration?
She touches her hair, still in awe, and she catches his gaze in the mirror.
“Thank you,” she whispers. It's laughingly inadequate, but she hopes he hears it all in how her voice trembles around the syllables.
“You’re welcome.” His lips spread in a shockingly warm, beautiful smile that softens his features beyond recognition. Ciri watches the metamorphose, utterly transfixed.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out on impulse, and his gaze snaps back to hers.
He only nods, and cleans her up, wipes away the stray hair, and unwraps the towel from her shoulders. She gets up from the chair and pulls out her purse to take out her card.
“Forget it,” he says sharply.
She blinks at him, stupefied. “What?”
“Forget your money, Princess.”
And just like that, the Asshole is back, and Ciri nearly winces at the impact. The fragile mood shatters, the reality resumes with a screeching sound of a car passing outside. The most surprising part is how much she already misses those soft moments from before.
No. She can’t allow it to vanish, that unexpected, delicate connection. She clutches onto it with all her might, desperate to keep even a shred of it, to help her navigate the reality.
She felt safe. She felt seen.
‘Trust me’ he said to her, and she did. She does.
She stands on her tiptoes—she didn’t realise before how tall he is—and she places a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you...Cahir.”
She turns around and unlocks the door, keen to escape before her courage leaves her, but freezes when he speaks up in that low tone of his that curls around her like an embrace.
“Anytime. Ciri.”
She’s glad she has her back turned, or the blush would have betrayed her.
“Can I take you up on that?” she manages quietly without turning around.
She can almost hear him smile and she’s yearning to look at him, just to watch all those sharp edges softening again—for her.
“I hope that you will.”