A/N: This one, like "Un flocon de neige dans l'eau," was written in response to a challenge from the LJ community drabbleaday. Simple, straightforward.

"Haircut," Babet said suddenly, inclining his head slightly at Brujon.

They were all gathered around a single candle in Babet's dark, dilapidated flat, preparing for their next ambush--Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, Montparnasse, and Bigrenaille. Brujon had laid out some maps of Paris on the table and was in the middle of explaining his brilliant plan when Babet spoke.

"What?" Brujon said, irritated that he had been so rudely interrupted.

"You," Babet said. "Haircut."

He exchanged glances with Gueulemer and Montparnasse, who were sitting beside him, as if to say, "Right?" Gueulemer nodded vehemently, and Montparnasse muttered something that sounded like, "Oh, yes, definitely."

Bigrenaille glanced at Brujon and chuckled. "He won't do it, of course."

"What are you talking about?" Brujon demanded, slamming his fist down on the table.

"Take it easy," said Babet with a grin. "We're just talking 'bout you."

"Oh." Brujon let the matter drop for a moment and returned to his maps, but then something clicked. "What about me?"

"Are you loffe?" said Bigrenaille. "It's your hair."

Brujon ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair instinctively. "Yeah, and?" His voice was quiet, dangerous, just daring Bigrenaille to cross the line.

"You should wash it, you filthy grease ball," said Montparnasse. "Look! You're leaving stains on your shirt."

"Mm," Babet said thoughtfully. "But he should do more than wash it. He should cut it."

Brujon was alarmed. "Cut it?"

Gueulemer nodded and added, cautiously, "Yeah. You should. It's been bothering us for the last few months. We just didn't say anything."

The others murmured in agreement.

Brujon leaned forward on the table, glared at Gueuelmer, and said in a tone that would frighten any honest citizen, "Really, I'd like to know. Why do I need to get a trim?"

"It's for your sake, not ours," said Babet. "Just in case you get nabbed by the coqueurs 'cause your hair's caught in something."

Brujon let out a barking laugh. "Ha! That's what you think!"

"We're warning you as your friends," said Montparnasse. "No need to get so upset."

If Brujon was anyone else, he might have seen the concern his associates were showing for him and would have gone to the barber's. Unfortunately, aside from being rather stubborn and defensive by nature, Brujon happened to have a very inflated ego, due to which he took pride in everything that was his--including his hair. Brujon simply ignored the others from that point on and continued explaining his idea.

The next night, Brujon's plan was set into motion, but there was a terrible misunderstanding--the bandits expected an easy entry, but instead a ferocious dog awaited them in the garden. They abandoned their efforts, retreated through the gate, and ducked into an alley--

"Are you icicaille, Gueulemer?"

"Yeah."

"Claquesous?"

"Of course I'm here. What did you expect?"

"Montparnasse?"

"Yes, I'm in one piece, but my coat isn't!"

"Don't worry about that. You can get another one. Bigrenaille?"

"Yeah?"

"Good. Brujon?"

Silence.

"Where's Brujon?"

"Merde!"

"Where'd you catch him?" the police officer asked. He eyed the filthy, long-haired criminal with a bit of apprehension. Even though the man was chained and locked up, the police officer was still careful to keep a good distance away from him. Perhaps it was the look of sheer malice in his eyes? (Or was that vengeance?)

"My dog started barking," the second officer said proudly, "so I came out to investigate and saw this fellow."

"What was he doing there?"

"He was trying to run, but he couldn't. You see, his hair got caught in the gate!"