She was standing in front of the mirror, running a hand through her hair—it had gotten shaggier in the intervening months since the Woodbury people had been brought to the prison. She had bangs now, for crying out loud.
"Needs a cut," She mumbled, and stooped under the small sink, reaching for the bag with the comb and scissors in it.
"Hey. Hand it here."
Carol jumped and nearly smacked her head on the basin of the sink. Daryl stood in the cell door, hand extended. One eyebrow was cocked, expectantly.
"I can cut my own hair." Carol replied archly. God knows what the feeling of Daryl running his fingers through her hair would do to her, anyways.
"Sure you can." He crossed the tiny space between them and gently lifted the scissors out of her hands.
"So why are you…"
"Need a haircut too."
Carol nodded, and stayed put when Daryl left the cell to find a stool for her to sit on. When he returned, he motioned for her to sit down, and she complied, telling herself that the only reason she was going through with this is so that she could return the favor.
His fingertips pressed the base of her skull—and in a flash her brain turned to a pile of mush. His hands worked up and through her hair, smoothing out any tangles and snarls with the small comb. If she was a cat she might have been purring.
"Sit up a bit," he muttered, and she did. She felt the scissors ghosting the back of her neck, and could only focus on the reflection in the mirror: Daryl, focused and tall and looming, standing over her, cutting her hair. Of all things.
But, she had to admit… she rather liked it.
