My makeover haunts the croissants… Would I make a good stylist?
Never call yourself an oddball when I'm out there somewhere.
I'm sure that first scientific paper still exists, the one describing my rarest-of-the-rare albinism variant. The palest albino people have blue eyes, and mine have always been the color of freshly-spilt blood. A mark of destiny, I suppose. Or fate. Fate, fate, that's all anyone talked about back in the Middle Ages when looking at me. Either that or witches and devil stuff. It was enough to make a scruffy kid raised by the Teutonic Order feel cheated. But hey, if they saw me now, I'd have to eat all my curse words, and language back in the day was no less colorful!
There's a popular myth that vampires come from Prussia. I'll take whatever credit is offered, but if I were a mythical creature, I'd probably be something more like a cockatrice! Part fluffy chicken, part no-shits dragon! So cuddly and cute, but with a stare that freezes the world into admiring its awesomeness!
Maybe I should try transforming into one? Maybe not. Transforming anything more than a few toes or my abdomen still gives me the heebie-jeebies.
I didn't know my eyesight was bad for centuries. My aim with arrows and swords was so immaculate that I didn't know anything was wrong! Of course, that was back when everyone wore colorful uniforms to show off, and the only indications of a true threat to me were "dancy yellow guy" (France,) "skippy yellow guy" (Poland,) "Poland's friend," (Lithuania,) and Austria. Just Austria. Because I can smell him. He smells like old shoes and powdered sugar.
But the clock ticks forward, technology improves, and now I have these contact-thingies that make my eyes neon magenta and allow me to see I'm actually more handsome than France. The man's chin is too pointy! My square jaw shows power!
I'm at France's suite in Paris right now. He couldn't handle the suburbia craze. Heart is where the home is for France. I can't blame him. Parisian buildings aren't that tall, and he's got himself a sweet Eiffel Tower view right off his balcony. He's got all those vintage swirly metal flowers and impressionist prints and quotes from French literature stenciled on the walls. Mood music is always wafting through the rooms, whether jazz or orchestral or those old French love songs — you know the ones, some girl drawling while a piano plays slow, hopeful chords in the background. The angriest I ever saw France off the political side of things was when I got tired of his sensual muck and filled his suite with Schlagermusik.
"It's still a love song," I told him.
"But not in the language of love!"
"Well, I don't see a difference between le grand, grand amour and die ganz große Liebe, and neither do the pigeons. Love is love, antsy Francy."
This was last night, by the way.
France likes taking jobs. I don't know why. He's striking half the year anyway. But he had this weekend off, so I hopped over to his place to eat yummy French food and ogle pretty French pigeons.
Right now he's making me breakfast, and I'm figuring out what to do with my hair. It's fine and pure white and fluffy in all directions when washed. Right now it's too long, so without gel I'm a puffy puppy that won't be combed.
I look long and hard at my reflection, then poke my cheeks. This is the face of a god. Er, godlike being? Ach, the hair has got to be trimmed, or it's going to get in my mouth the next time I end up spaghettified. France has to have some scissors around here I can use. I can't ask him where they are because then he'll want to style me himself.
I find a pair in the mirror cabinet, and I'm just about to hack off a big chunk over my forehead when I get a brilliant idea.
It's a thing in movies with magic characters. The objects move by themselves. Mops clean, toys put themselves away, dishes fly across the room into their cabinets. So what if I enchanted these scissors to cut my hair for me? Then I wouldn't waste time applying my mascara.
What did you expect? My eyelashes are almost invisible. I deserve to be voluminous, too.
I place the scissors on the counter and splay my fingers out over them, focusing on them until I feel a strange force tugging at my palm. I pull back gracefully, and the scissors rise up, slowly spinning. I make a snipping motion with two fingers, then swivel my hand so it's palm-up, gesturing the scissors back.
But they're a bit stubborn and remain motionless despite my command. Perhaps my telekinetic pull is too weak? I expand the bubble of force until it wraps around them completely, then repeat the snipping motion. The scissors snip while floating. Then I pull them back to my head and snip off a few chunks of hair without even touching them.
"Keep doing that," I say. "Will you keep doing that?"
My powers are like dream-control sometimes. If I say a command and believe enough, it's executed with little effort. The scissors keep snipping at my hair. I wiggle so they won't cut me if I fall, then slowly and steadily release the force. The scissors keep floating and snipping. Granted, they're doing it randomly, but it looks just like I'm a wizard!
Curious, I take out my mascara and extend my left hand over the top. With a flick of my finger, the cap flies off, and with a wave of my fingers, it floats up to my face. I stir with my pointer finger while batting my lashes, and the floating wand paints them a deep gray.
"Other eye, please," I say, releasing my grip. The wand replies by wiggling to paint the other side. "Not bad," I tell it, then flick two fingers down to make it recap itself and fall into my manly makeup bag.
But my eyebrows are hard to see, too, so I need to pencil those in more. I wiggle my right pinky to summon the gray pencil from the bottom of the bag. Like last time, I pencil in one until it's shiny silver, then sit back and fold my arms while it scribbles in the other.
Leaning against the wall, I gesture to turn on the tap. A long rope of water splishes over to pool and bubble between my cupped hands. A wiggling pinky summons a squirt of liquid soap that flows and mixes within the bubbling globe. I give a command, and it splashes over my face before slithering and snaking down my shirt and through my armpits. Another, smaller globe forms a drippy halo around my head to assist the snipping scissors, which are happily trimming all around my ears.
While I'm at it, I enjoy a handless tooth-brushing experience, a nail-clipping with my eyes closed, and even a shoulder massage from some invisible disembodied hands. I'm getting the hang of this! A single point at the razor removes that snowy stubble on my chin, and the tweezers pluck out all those nasty long nose hairs.
I'm being totally pampered here! Germany will love to hear about this! He could just ask me, and I'd snap my fingers to gel his hair for him! Oh, speaking of finger snaps, I snap on both hands, and my sleep shirt and pajama pants fuse and thicken into a warm, fluffy robe. What next? A mani-pedi? Nah, that's too much like Austria.
Snip. Snip. Snip. The scissors are getting excited. They cut away the bothersome split ends that tickle in my sleep, and with a tap of my foot, I open a small warp on the floor that schlorps them into some other dimension like a cosmic noo-noo.
I'm still admiring the ethereal glow of my skin from the hands-free facial when France screams in the other room. Normally I wouldn't bat a tarred-up eyelash at his melodrama, but what bad French I know tells me something is haunting the croissants, and that's an uh-oh on my part.
I open the door and sneak over to where I can peek in the kitchen. France has completely ignored the personless pillow fight and the doors to the balcony slamming open and shut on their own, and he certainly hasn't seen the dress shirts floating over to a sentient steam press or the big honking French dictionary torpedo-ing through the air like a squid. Really, this would be just like the movies if those knitting needles knew how to rib correctly.
I should have known my power would expand and leak out into the rest of the suite. I wouldn't be surprised if all the pigeons in Paris are getting facials. But France hasn't noticed. He's focused on something in the kitchen. Hunching my shoulders a bit and grabbing the giddy scissors, I creep forward to see what he's up to.
He's screaming at his rack of croissants. The crispy moon-shaped dough-rolls are in the midst of unrolling themselves and inverting so the fluffy part is on the outside and the crust on the inside. France grabs a knife to slice one, and it wriggles away like an inchworm.
"Stop. Stop now. I'm normal," I whisper under my breath. I hear several clangs and crashes from the other room, then a sickening hiss from the steam iron pressing what's probably the dictionary.
France turns to me and utterly melts at my appearance.
"What happened to your hair, dear Prusse!?"
"I cut it. It was getting too poofy."
"You cut it? By yourself?"
"Yep, I've been beautifying myself this whole time. What have you been doing? Cursing your croissants? They look scrumptious."
My awesome reflexes snag one just before it slides like a slug out the window, and I take a huge bite. "Wow, fluffy bready part on the outside. Cool trick!"
"You know I didn't do that! You… you saw what happened, didn't you? They inverted by themselves! That wasn't my doing! I bet it was that fool Terre d'Oeuf! He has been cursing me in my own house for decades! And it should be no question that haunting my croissants is more offensive to me than any donkey ears or goat hooves!"
I'm glad to see France is creative with nicknames. But I don't think he knows calling England "Eggland" in French is still giving homage to his English name.
Perhaps when I'm inspired I'll curse England on France's behalf.
"They still taste good," I say, shrugging. "Hey, France, I know what we're gonna do today."
"And what would that be?" France sighs.
"Let's give pigeons makeovers."
My true friend, mortal enemy at times, but mostly kind, caring, loving friend, looks me in the eyes and says, earnestly, tenderly, lovingly, "Prussia, I am not letting you give Parisian pigeons bowl cuts."
~N~
The last time I saw Prussia in a dream, he had neon magenta eyes and a square jaw like Germany. And of course, that super fluffy white hair that couldn't stay combed. The song Prussia played was "Die Ganz Große Liebe" by Beatrice Egli.
Updated by Syntax-N on FanFiction . net May 26th, 2020. Reposters will be haunted. Respectful readers get inverted croissants!