I love Once Upon A Time, but I own not a single word of it.
Set sometime prior to 'The Heart is a Lonely Hunter' as there's going to be a LOT of changes in Storybrooke that are integral to the characters, and I want to keep this as close to canon as possible. Given, of course, that I'm making up characters to populate the town with... *sticks tongue in cheek and ignores the illogic*
Regina really was a bastard, Emma decided. Give her the low-down criminals any day, the upper-class hoity-toity butter-does-not-melt-in-my-mouth frills always gave her a sick feeling in her stomach when she was forced to deal with them. And, really, the nerve of her! To insult Emma's background was one thing, but to insult her hair? That was just going too far.
'I'm really quite impressed,' the mayor had said, voice so sincere that it made a mock of sincerity. 'You must be truly dedicated to your job to ignore your looks so thoroughly.' Regina caressed her own, perfectly coiffed locks and smiled - no, simpered.
Emma was half a second away from taking another branch off of Regina's precious apple tree, but she restrained herself. And, she had to admit, if grudgingly, that the pompous bi- uh, witch had a point. Emma's hair had grown out, from high style to something quite close to seedy. Any further and it would be beyond the edges of the map marked 'Here there be dragons.' She would rather pluck her own self bald with a pair of blunt tweezers than admit that fact aloud, however.
So it was that the erstwhile bounty hunter found herself flipping idly through the yellow pages looking for the address of the nearest branch of the chain of salons she liked to frequent when she had a hair emergency. Unfortunately, it was located an unhelpful forty miles away, well outside of Storybrooke proper. She rationalized her reluctance to leave the town, even for that short of a trip, with the knowledge that she hadn't been granted the day off and couldn't very well leave the town undefended from drunks, looters, and vagabonds. She refused to acknowledge, even to herself, that Henry's conviction that anyone attempting to leave the town met with misfortune had her spooked, just a bit. She wasn't ready to test the idea either way, however.
An advert for a local salon - from the looks of it, the local salon - caught her eye. It was simple and understated, just reading "Hair" in an elegant, old-style script. Emma read it twice (it took all of a second), and decided to give the place a chance. She copied down the address, realized it wasn't all that far from the sheriff's office, and decided to walk.
Up three side streets and down another four, backtracking once when she realized that "Hazelwood Way" was definitely not the same as "Hazelway Wood," Emma eventually found herself in front of a long, brick-fronted building, with no apparent entrance nor exit. There was a window, small but tastefully emblazoned with the same elegantly scripted name of "Hair." Emma was standing, staring at the storefront, when a young woman's face appeared in the window, lit up, and enthusiastically pointed to the left and curled, indicating a direction. Emma, bewildered, followed her pointing finger, walking past two other businesses that butted up against one another without even an alley in between, before following the sidewalk around and meeting the girl partway down the next block.
"Whew!" said the employee, bouncing happily on her toes. "I'm glad I caught you! Sorry about the confusion; most folks around here know to just come around back." She led the way along the back side of the building, chattering happily. "Hair used to be part of one long warehouse complex; when they walled it up for stores, some of us got stuck without doors on the street. Not fun." Indeed, Emma could now see several doors looking over the not-quite-alley, not all of them, necessarily, with windows attached. The portal to Hair turned out to be a set of short stairs painted a cheery yellow, topped by a bright blue door and the requisite happy bell when the deputy pushed her way in.
The employee got right to work, plunking Emma in a red-vinyl chair and whipping a black smock around her shoulders before the deputy could say Uncle. She gathered up her customer's hair with a tsk and ran it through her fingers, bopping her head back and forth in an uncertain manner before nodding and letting it fall back to Emma's shoulders."Anything special today, darlin'?" she asked.
Emma blinked, assimilated the question, and replied with her standard request. It didn't seem to trouble the other girl any - she couldn't be more than eighteen if she was a day - and she bustled about with her cutting station.
The out-of-towner took advantage of the pause to study her cosmetologist. Not overly tall, slightly pudgy, with pale skin that either betokened unfortunate genetics or a lot of time spent indoors. Her hair was... was... Well, to be frank, it just was. Short and poofy in the front, with long locks that dangled off to the sides, well greased down, spiky bits towards the crown and a barrage of tiny braids at the back, Emma couldn't decide if the employee was attempting to model several different styles at once or had simply been caught in a tornado with a pair of scissors and a can of hairspray. Nor could she decide what color it was, originally or otherwise. There were at least three different shades of pink, two competing shades of blue, green, black, and a truly garish streak of orange right down the center. As the girl turned, Emma spotted a patch of blonde at the nape of her neck, but so corn-yellow that she wasn't sure if it was genuine hair color or just another bit of dye.
"There now, all set," said the girl with a grin, resting her hands on Emma's shoulders for a moment and making eye contact with her in the mirror. "Let's get you started."
Emma opened her mouth, trepidation for her hair swallowing all other emotions, but the girl was already cutting. Her hands were quick and deft, and after a few moments Emma clenched her jaw and settled back. The girl certainly seemed competent, hairstyle notwithstanding.
Which reminded her... "What's your name?" she asked, curiously.
"Hm?" said the girl, jolted out of her reverie. "Oh. I'm Persinette. Persinette Rampion." She offered a shy grin, totally out of sync with her wild and bold hair. "Call me Persy, though. Yeah, I know it's a boy's name, but much better than Persinette, don't you think?" Persy made a face, and Emma laughed.
"I'm Emma," Emma said. "Emma Swan."
"Oh, I know all about you," grinned Persy. "Regina was hissing sparks about you when she was in here last week. Almost cut her ear off when she wouldn't keep still."
Emma blinked. Somehow she hadn't quite envisioned the mayor doing something quite so common as sitting down to have her hair cut. She said as much, and Persy giggled.
"I think that's one of the reasons she insists I keep my shop here, with only the one window and no easy way to see inside. Good for the clientele with seclusive tastes, not so great for the walk-ins. Still, if it keeps Regina happy, I get to keep my shop, and I've got a pretty regular base of rather exclusive customers." Her face suddenly got worried in the mirror and she met Emma's eyes there again. "You won't tell Regina I mentioned her, will you? I think she likes to cultivate the whole 'I wake up in the morning this gorgeous' image; she won't appreciate my bruiting about that she comes here."
Emma assured her that her secret was safe, and they made small talk while Persy cut and styled Emma's hair, in a rather more daring style than she'd ever sported previously but which, she had to admit, complimented her face very nicely.
As they settled the matter of payment, Emma couldn't help but wonder which fairy tale character Henry had cast his mother's stylist as. There were certainly familiar elements here, but she just couldn't put her finger on it...
"Bye, Persy!" she bade the friendly girl, waving over her shoulder through the closing door as she descended the stairs. She let her hand trail over the handrail, but jerked it back as something sharp bit her finger.
Sucking on the wounded digit, she examined the rail. It was not, as she had first supposed, a splinter, but a thorn; tiny, and wickedly sharp for all that. It was attached, she now saw, to a riot of climbing roses that made its way up the latticework on the stairs, on the far side of the stairway from where Emma had approached, so that she hadn't seen them when she walked in. She would suggest that Persy try trimming the plants, the next time she came here. They could really hurt somebody.
Emma walked back to the police station, admiring her new 'do in every reflective surface she came across. Just let Regina insult her hair now. Emma would just smile, and laugh a little private laugh, knowing that the joke was on her.