The Austrian was roused from his sleep by the feeling of being shaken. Through bleary eyes, he immediately saw the face of his wife, who seemed troubled, to say the least. Was there a tinge of embarrassment upon her face? Her bangs and the lovely curls and waves that framed the right side of her face were smooth and tame, while the rest resembled the nest of a bird. Before Roderich could ask what the source of Elizaveta's distress was, she turned around and pointed to the back of her head.
A hairbrush was hopelessly entangled in her locks, resembling a doomed ship in a sea of honey brown strands, and it did not look like any miracles would happen soon. Roderich had to admit, there was a bit of irony to the situation. His wife, who had fought entire armies single-handedly, had finally met her match, and it was a hairbrush.
Trying to keep her calm, he led her to a chair, and began to attempt to dissect the knot. He gave a firm yank, causing the Hungarian woman's scarred shoulders to rise involuntarily with pain. He muttered, "So sorry, my love," then continued. In all honesty, he had no idea what he was doing. His fingers were accustomed to instruments and sheet music, not impossibly tangled hair. He pulled a few hairs free, loosening a bristle or two. He wondered internally how on Earth she had gotten it stuck, or how she got such a severe snarl in her hair to ensnare the poor brush.
At a loss for what else to do, he decided he would try pulling out the brush again. With one hand, he took a fistful of hair, and with the other, he grasped the brush handle. He counted to three under his breath, and then pulled with all his might. A sickening "snap" seemed to almost echo in the room. Roderich stared at the brush handle, which was very separate from the rest of the brush, in his hand, and blanched. Elizabeta buried her face in her hands, suppressing a scream.
"Roderich, you didn't."
"I may have… May I just get the scissors?"
The chilling look she responded with was answer enough. Knowing Elizaveta for centuries had taught Roderich many things, and not to try and argue with her was one. He set back to work, beginning to believe that his efforts would be fruitless. He thought (well, moreso hoped) that maybe one last tug would do the trick.
"I would advise you to grab the dresser," he warned her quietly. He took a deep breath and pulled harder than any of his previous attempts combined. He fell backward, taking the female nation with him. He helped her up and his cheeks turned a deep rose as he gave a sheepish grin and raised the rest of the hairbrush. Elizavetas expression softened, and she gave Roderich a gentle kiss, thanking him.
He offered to brush the rest of her hair, but she simply chuckled and replied, "I love you, but I also love having my scalp still attached to my head, dear." She picked up a comb that had been knocked from the dresser. Roderich waited beside her, a tad too close. She met yet another knot. This one, however, decided to yield quickly, and when it did, the comb met the Austrian's cheek with a resounding 'smack." After apologizing profusely, Elizaveta sighed, 'This morning is going well, hm?" and placed a kiss on his now sore cheek. "Indeed," he replied, returning the gesture and not caring about the lump he could already feel forming upon his face.