The first wig was an orange monstrosity: cheap, ill-fitted, and frightful to behold. The ridiculous garment rested on his head like an afterthought: a leaf upon a pumpkin, or a class-B-rank-7 in a world of heroes. It couldn't even be bothered to cover the back of his head. The whole time Saitama wore it, he felt—not exactly wrong-footed. It had been years since his footing had become second nature. He felt ironically exposed.

"Charanko's wig could never be fitting for a master as great as sensei," Genos said, voice choked with misplaced emotion. "I'll call Dr. Kuseno. We'll make you a piece that's perfect for your noble character."

"No, it just wouldn't stay on. . . Genos?" Saitama's pleas fell on deaf ears. Genos was already on his phone, deep in discussion. Saitama sighed.


The second wig was blue and beautiful, flowing and lustrous and worthy of Amai Mask himself.

"It's only my backup practice wig, but don't you dare get a drop of blood on it," Amai Mask said loftily. "It's about time you put some thought into your hero image."

This wig was an improvement. Built for energetic and athletic idol performances, its elastic net fit snuggly and securely over Saitama's head. And for a few days, it felt nice. Bystanders no longer fled from him, mistaking him for a Paradiser. Children no longer gaped openly at his head. Everything was fine from a distance. But in closer range. . . well.

"Amai Mask! Amai Mask!" A squealing voice called from behind him. Saitama groaned: it was the third time just that hour! He turned around to snap at the fan.

There was no need. The moment his face came into view, the girl stopped in her tracks, an expression of disgust shadowing her face. "N-never mind," she stammered.

Saitama snatched the wig off and disintegrated it with a punch.


The third wig was the opposite. Ragged and choppy on the sides, and bearing both a mohawk on top, a mullet in the back, and a topknot in between, it screamed Keep away! as clearly as a viper's bands. The stares were back, but this time, they were warranted. He'd known what he was getting into when he chose that wig; he had a choice.

It served its purpose beautifully. Passers-by gave him a wide berth, no new A-rank blowhards came to attempt a rookie-crushing, and the grocery store even extended a sale when he walked in the door two minutes late. For a while, Saitama was happy.

"Ehh? Why did my rank drop?"

Saitama instantly recognized the furrow in Genos's brow that meant he was choosing his words very carefully. He braced himself.

"It seems that civilians have not been. . . around to observe your victories," Genos said delicately, his eyes flickering to the statement piece on Saitama's head. "The Hero Association may be. . . unaware of your recent battles."

Saitama slumped in defeat. "Dammit," he grumbled.


The fourth wig was merely an unfortunate accident, hardly fitting to be called a wig at all. It wasn't Saitama's plan for the monster calling itself Grand Mega Kombu to come to town. The creature was as tall as twenty city blocks. It was unavoidable that when Saitama shattered it to shreds, when its appendages rained down as thickly as a mosquito swarm, that some of the slimy strands would plaster themselves to his head.

Genos tried valiantly to hold in his laughter. Saitama seethed the whole way home.


Saitama nearly cried when Genos proudly unveiled the last wig.

Jet black and spiky, with bangs falling haphazardly over his eyes, it was a perfect replica of his natural hair. Not Charanko's, and not another hero's. His own, returned to him. His body made whole.

"Genos. . . how did you know?" he asked, taking it with trembling hands.

"I used my microscopic vision to analyze the directional vectors of the hair follicles on your head, and ran simulations to determine the most natural way the hairs would grow. A search of the most popular hairstyles for salarymen allowed me to determine the most likely styles. A cursory measurement of your cranial dimensions was sufficient to fit the wig to your head," Genos explained. "Not that I ever look at your head."

It was a little touching, a little unsettling, and completely heartwarming all at once. Saitama stared into the mirror as he set the wig on his head, releasing a deep sigh and waiting to be filled with inner peace.

He waited.

And waited.

Genos noticed his faltering expression immediately. "Sensei, what's wrong?"

His reflection stared back at him. "It's. . . weird," Saitama said, confused.

Genos blanched. He grabbed for his notebook and flipped through the pages furiously, muttering in a rapid-fire stream. "How could I have made a mistake? I ran the simulation a hundred times, and every time was an exact match. Is it the thickness of the material? Yes, that must be it, the fiber's elasticity is different from his natural hair. Don't worry, sensei, I'll re-do the calculations and—"

"Wait." Saitama pressed a hand flat against the notebook, holding it open to a page of sketches. Genos had carefully outlined his head from every angle, every curve and contour outlined in loving detail, the measurements carefully recorded to three significant digits. In a flight of uncharacteristic fancy, he'd drawn each sketch with a different expression. Saitama's face gazed out at them in clean, sculpted lines: now glowing with soft laughter; now pensive, melancholy; now fierce with resolve. Beautiful. Heroic.

"You said you never look at my head," he protested faintly.

"Forgive me, sensei."

Saitama breathed in deeply and counted to ten. Released it, and imagined himself releasing a secret from his heart. Watched it dissipate in the air between them.

He pulled the wig from his head. "It's perfect," he said gently. "It's exactly how I used to look. Who I used to be. But. . . that man I was before. . . he wasn't a hero, and he wasn't your sensei. I am."

"Sensei. . ." Genos murmured, seeming deeply moved. His eyes shone with impassioned tears. "I understand," he said with feeling.

"You do?"

Genos clenched his fist. "Yes," he declared. "Sensei, you trained so hard you lost all your hair. Your smooth head is your shining badge of honor!"

"Ehhhhh?"

He was scribbling in the book again, line after line of false wisdom tumbling out. Watching his eager disciple, Saitama couldn't help but smile.

"You're close, Genos. One day soon, you'll get it."