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The hairdresser was very feminine, and more than a little flamboyant. Once he�d released his hair from the elastic band and said he wanted to cut it, the hairdresser teased it with purple-nailed fingers and cooed about what he should do to it. Yeah, the hairdresser was definitely one of those guys. Not that it mattered to him; if anything, Purple Nails probably knew a lot about what looked good on a guy. He murmured the only preferences he had and watched the purple nails twist through his hair and listened while the hairdresser plotted his battle. A plastic cape was draped over his body, and his head was pressed into a sink and washed. He rather liked having his scalp caressed; Purple Nail�s fingers were gentle, and the circular motion against his skin calmed his taut nerves. Several minutes later, Purple Nails was snipping away at his wet hair, humming brightly to himself because he�d found his customer to be shy. Said customer watched the white floor below his chair, fascinated by the black coils raining down on it. Getting a haircut. Another normal, everyday thing, performed by millions of people a day with nary a second thought about it. With the plastic cloak covering his frail body, he looked just like everyone else. Like someone normal. Purple Nails dried his hair and brushed it. He untied the plastic cloak around his customer�s neck and had him stand up. He looked at himself in the mirror and ran a hand through his now-shorter locks. He grinned. His mother was going to kill him. He thanked Purple Nails, paid at the front, and went to find her. |