PROMPT: "I can't stand my own reflection."
"I can't stand my own reflection."
"You're being overdramatic," replies Eowyn.
"I don't know," Aragorn says, grinning from where he's sprawled bonelessly across Eomer's couch, "mullets did go the way of the dodo back when I was in elementary school-"
Eomer shoots a decidedly impolite gesture in his friend's direction before giving his hair-his horribly, horribly, abused hair-a desperate tug, as if doing so can make it grow back to its normal length. "Remind me to punch Amrothos. Again."
Apparently, Faramir's cousin's idea of a good time includes making the brother-of-the-bride look like an 80's hair band member.
Eomer's idea of a good time had been showing Amrothos how little he liked his new haircut with a fist to his face.
The younger man remains unashamedly amused. Eomer's hair remains cut. A lose-lose situation.
"I'll have to ask you to refrain from giving one of my groomsman two black eyes before the wedding," Faramir says drolly, as if this isn't entirely his fault. "One we can excuse on clumsiness, but two begins to look like assault."
"Good," Eomer says, "because it would be."
Eowyn rolls her eyes, coming to stand in front of him with a hair tie in her outstretched palm. "Luckily for you, I know someone who can fix this."
"Who? Harry Potter?"
His sister wrinkles her nose at him as his traitorous friends chuckle in the background. "No. Someone decidedly more real than Harry Potter. And substantially better looking, I might add."
Eomer begins to suspect the solution may be worse than the problem at hand. "Again: who?"
The shop Eowyn drags him to is absurdly cheerful, in various shades of blue and vases of fresh flowers scattered everywhere. It only serves to increase the dull throbbing at his temples-she still hasn't said who the mystery miracle worker is, but Aragorn's smirk and Faramir's parting wink were. Worrying. Very worrying.
Eowyn taps on the silver bell on the front test three times in quick succession.
There's the muffled sound of cursing from the back of the store before the curtain-also blue, also dotted with flowers-is pushed aside, revealing-
Oh, Bema.
He's going to murder his sister.
"Eowyn!" Lothiriel cries, her typical megawatt smile making her pretty face even more so. "What a pleasant surprise!"
"I'm glad you think so," Eowyn says, shooting a sly look in Eomer's direction-oh, he really is going to murder her, the meddling witch-before she steps forward to give the younger woman a hug. "Are you busy?"
Lothiriel snorts, gesturing at the empty shop. "Not hardly. Saturday mornings are strangely slow-"
Her voice trails off as she looks at him. Eomer can feel the sharp, sudden rise of a blush in his face as she gawks at his hair.
"Erm," she says. "Nice...haircut, Eomer?"
"No," he says, embarrassment making his voice sharp, "it isn't."
"Amrothos may have gone a bit far," Eowyn explains.
Lothiriel groans. "He needs a shock collar. Or a good thrashing."
"Eomer has provided one of those already," chirps Eowyn.
"I assume the thrashing, shock collars are terribly difficult to acquire on short notice," Lothiriel quips.
Despite it all, he can't help but snort a laugh. Lothiriel grins up at him, clearly having gotten the reaction she wanted.
"Come on then, Van Halen," she says, crooking a finger at him. "Let's see what I can do with this mess."
Eomer's had plenty of haircuts in the past-not including the one that took place during the wee hours of the morning the night before, thank you very much again, Amrothos-but they've never been so. So.
Uncomfortable.
Not uncomfortable in the sense that Lothiriel doesn't know what she's doing; it's obvious that this is her profession, from the ease at which she settles his absurdly long frame in the chair, the gentle scratch of her fingernails over his scalp-
Well. No. That's partially why it's so uncomfortable.
Getting a haircut from an attractive woman is not a new experience for him, but getting a haircut from an attractive woman on whom he's been harboring an apparently not-so-secret crush? Definitely new.
And definitely uncomfortable-she's just so close, the sweet floral smell of her perfume heady and enthralling, the press of her fingers damn near intoxicating-
"-mer?" Lothiriel repeats, startling him out of his daze.
"Hm?" He grunts, not trusting himself to form words.
"I'm sorry Amrothos did this," she says. "It really is a shame. Your hair looked so good long."
Eomer swallows. Reminds himself that she does hair for a living, that it's likely a compliment on how healthy it is, and has nothing to do with whether or not she thinks he looks good or not.
"S'alright," he mutters, keeping his eyes closed. "Shorter hair for me, a black eye for him. Seems like a fair trade."
Lothiriel huffs a laugh. "Men."
He has to open his eyes when she tells him to move to another chair-Eowyn is suspiciously absent, but Lothiriel merely smiles up at him again, leading him over to her station. His reflection in the mirror is a little better than it had been this morning-freshly washed, his hair's mullet-fied state is not as apparent.
"Now," she says, coming to stand behind him, "you've had long hair for as long as I've known you. So I'm betting you know next to nothing about any other sort of style."
"You'd be correct," he agrees.
He can see her eyes crinkle in the mirror. "Hm. Do you trust me?"
It's a simple question, but it makes his heart give a lurch all the same. "Yes," he says, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
Lothiriel keeps a steady stream of chatter while she works at his hair. It's equal parts soothing and distracting-soothing, because she likely knows how close he is to panic with every long strand of hair he sees floating to the floor-and distracting, because it's Lothiriel. Eomer can't remember a time when she hasn't been distracting.
"...and then Pippin did some sort of flip-honestly, how he hasn't killed himself yet remains a mystery-and Merry caught him, all the while singing about the Green Dragon-"
He's grinning full on, both at the mental picture she's painting, and at the animated facial expressions she's making, reflected in the mirror.
Lothiriel's eyes meet his when he laughs and her face flushes crimson. "I forget the mirror is there, sometimes," she admits, something like shame in her voice. "Sorry, I know I tend to get carried away in a story-"
Frowning, Eomer reaches back to catch her scissor-less hand in his. "Don't apologize for being you, Lothiriel."
She blinks, eyes wide and beautiful and surprised, in the bright lights of the shop-Bema, does he have it bad-
"Well," she says, in a softer tone, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, "if you insist."
"And, viola!" She declares, maybe twenty minutes later. "You are officially mullet-free."
"Thank Bema for that," he says, waiting for her to spin the chair back to face the mirror. She'd turned him away from it for the last few trims, insisting on him not seeing the finished work until it was truly ready.
Lothiriel smiles, giving the chair a substantial push, and-
Bema, Eomer thinks, that can't be me.
His hair is short, shorter than it's ever been since childhood, cropped close to his head on the sides, and styled artfully-he's never going to be able to replicate this on his own-at the front. He looks-well. Not too terribly different from that Hemsworth bloke in the latest Thor movie.
"I always thought your long hair suited you," Lothiriel murmurs, "but this is, um, good, too." She's blushing as she says it, and blushes deeper when he reaches up to rub a hand over it. "Do you like it? I-there's not much I can do, lengthwise, but I can re-do this bit-"
His hand closing over hers stops her short. "Lothiriel. Thank you."
"You're welcome," she says, eyes meeting his in the mirror again. "And it's on me, since Amrothos was responsible for the 80's themed monstrosity to begin with."
"No," he says-Bema, he's still holding her hand, but he can't bring himself to let it go, not when she's still standing so close behind him, flushed and beautiful- "that's not necessary, Lothiriel, really-"
"It is," she insists, her stubbornness apparent in the furrow between her brows, "I am not letting you pay a single dime for this, Eomer-"
"Let me buy you lunch, then," he interrupts, the words coming out of his mouth before he can think better of them. Likely spurred on by the fact that she hasn't moved her hand either, and that her free hand has drifted up to rest on his shoulder.
"Oh," Lothiriel breathes, her cheeks darkening again. "That, um. That could work."
Eomer grins, standing abruptly and tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Is now alright with you?"
Her smile is. Bright. Beautiful. All Lothiriel. "I think I can pencil you in."
("I never would have cut his hair if I knew this is what would come of it!" Amrothos wails, some months later.
"Serves you right," Eowyn says, smug as she leans back into Faramir's open arms. "I, for one, can't thank you enough."
"I'm sure Eomer and Lothiriel feel the same," Faramir drawls, grinning.
The couple in question remains oblivious to their audience, too busy kissing across the pool table to hear them.
Van Halen's Why Can't This Be Love comes wailing out of the jukebox, manned by a grinning Aragorn.
He receives a less-than-polite hand gesture from Eomer from behind Lothiriel's back.)