Snip
By S. Faith, © 2012
Words: 705
Rating: PG-13 / T (Language)
Summary: How hard can haircutting be?
Disclaimer: Really, truly not my characters, universe, etc.
Notes: Silly bit of fluff.
"I'll do it."
He stared at her. "You'll… do what, exactly?"
"Cut your hair."
He laughed; he couldn't help himself. "You'll cut my hair?" he repeated in astonishment. He never thought, in complaining about needing a trim, she would volunteer to do it.
"I can cut hair," she said, her voice, her very posture indignant. "I've done it loads of time."
"Name one."
She pursed her lips. "Tom. I've done Tom's hair."
"I don't believe it for a second," he said with a smile. "Tom is one of the fussiest people I've ever met, especially when it comes to hair."
"I've done the frizzy ends off of Shaz's hair," she added. "And I have done Tom's. Ring him up and ask."
"Don't think that's necessary," he said. He narrowed his eyes, looked at how earnest she looked, and relented. "You really can cut hair? If I can avoid a trip to the barber for now…."
"I can do it," she said with confidence.
The "How hard can this be?" that issued from her lips as the cool steel of the scissors touched his neck should have worried him, but he took in a breath and let her get to work. He heard the snip-snip-snip, felt the comb rake along his skin; she was very quiet, save for the occasional exhale of breath. Then a snip and a—
"Fuck."
He turned his head quickly, which was not a good idea, never a good idea, when a sharp pair of scissors was out of sight of even one's peripheral vision. The jolt of pain to his earlobe was excruciating, and immediately he brought his hand up to his head.
"Oh God," she said. "Don't panic, but you're bleeding."
"I can see that," he said, taking away his hand to see it covered in crimson; although he knew logically that head wounds of any kind tended to bleed a lot even with minor wounds, he felt a bit dizzy at the sight of it. Against his wound she pressed the towel that had been draped over his shoulders.
"Where are your keys? We should go to A&E," she said. Her voice dropped down to sepulchral: "Oh, God, they're going to think I tried to kill you or something."
Despite everything he chuckled. "They're not going to think that." He placed his hand over hers, then stood. Her hand came away. "Let's have a look."
Together they went to the mirror in the loo; the scattering of blood drops on his shoulder were alarming, but when he took away the towel, a tiny laceration on the back of his ear, which had already stopped bleeding, was the only evidence of the mishap.
"At worst, A&E might think you were the world's worst ear piercer," he said wryly, "but I don't think a trip is warranted."
He took off the shirt, ran the stain under cold water before he threw it into the laundry bin, though he knew it was probably a lost cause. As he did this, she fetched the white spirit, antibiotic salve and a small plaster. He sat on the closed toilet as she tended to him: first came the sting of the spirit, then the cool of the gel salve, and finally the gentle pad of the plaster against his skin. "There," she said, then placed a tender kiss on the wound through the plaster before standing upright again.
He turned and looked up to her. "Thank you," he said.
"I'm really sorry," she said. "Next time you probably should just wait to go someone who might not stab you through the head."
He stood, taking her hands in his. "Don't apologise. That was entirely my fault," he said. He looked up and into the mirror again, turning from side to side to admire what she'd done around the nape of his neck. "You did a really nice job." He picked up her small hand mirror to look at the very back in its reflection. "Very nice."
"You're not just saying that, are you?"
He met her gaze. "Not."
Reluctantly she grinned. "Even if I nearly took off your ear."
He took her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. "And never exaggerate."
The end.