[open/active] If you want something done right...
Characters: Thomas, Ponies?, Open!
Time: Daytime
Location: Barbershop off the Blackstone Lobby
Content: Thomas slips back into old habits. And is grumpy because Deadpool set his hair on fire. Feel free to just stop by and chat. Or demand he do your hair. Whatever works.
Format: Prose
Warnings: Beware of Thomas: Sarcasm, innuendo, etc.
The barbershop inside the Blackstone Hotel had been gone for years, but given the weirdness that was Chicago, Thomas wasn't surprised that it was still in the hotel. He eyed the fixtures and the balding man sweeping up with extreme skepticism through the large window before walking in. "How can I help you today, sir? Shave and a haircut?" said man said, chipper despite the quaver of age in his voice.
Thomas eyed the man again, his attention caught by the way the man gripped his broom. Right. old, shaky handed barber. Thomas shook his head. "Just looking to borrow a pair of scissors and a chair," he answered, already having dismissed the empty shadow of a man, and headed to one of the old fashioned barber chairs. He paused as he stood in front of the mirror, looking surprised when he noticed that his hands had already picked up the comb and scissors that had been laid out. Funny how a couple of years working at the salon had already been enough to commit the motions to muscle memory.
He tried not to think too hard about it, staring into the mirror and trimming off the hair that Deadpool's explosion had burned away, then evening it out on the other side. While he worked, Thomas began humming half under his breath, something that sounded vaguely Top 40, the sort of pop his employees would have played over the sound system years ago. It was an unconscious slip, but it was easy to see the tension leave him the longer he continued. It wasn't until he'd finished, his hair cut short, that Thomas noticed his own humming, and he stared at himself in the mirror.
"You're not bad, son," the barber, who had gone back to quietly sweeping up, observed. "Couldn't have done it better myself, back before the rheumatism got bad."
'You're pathetic, Raith,' he thought derisively, but he couldn't deny that a part of him had missed the salon, had missed the knowledge that he had done something, had built something of his own for himself, away from his family's influence. Just like he'd been trying to do here, but never quite managed. Maybe it was time to try again.
Time: Daytime
Location: Barbershop off the Blackstone Lobby
Content: Thomas slips back into old habits. And is grumpy because Deadpool set his hair on fire. Feel free to just stop by and chat. Or demand he do your hair. Whatever works.
Format: Prose
Warnings: Beware of Thomas: Sarcasm, innuendo, etc.
The barbershop inside the Blackstone Hotel had been gone for years, but given the weirdness that was Chicago, Thomas wasn't surprised that it was still in the hotel. He eyed the fixtures and the balding man sweeping up with extreme skepticism through the large window before walking in. "How can I help you today, sir? Shave and a haircut?" said man said, chipper despite the quaver of age in his voice.
Thomas eyed the man again, his attention caught by the way the man gripped his broom. Right. old, shaky handed barber. Thomas shook his head. "Just looking to borrow a pair of scissors and a chair," he answered, already having dismissed the empty shadow of a man, and headed to one of the old fashioned barber chairs. He paused as he stood in front of the mirror, looking surprised when he noticed that his hands had already picked up the comb and scissors that had been laid out. Funny how a couple of years working at the salon had already been enough to commit the motions to muscle memory.
He tried not to think too hard about it, staring into the mirror and trimming off the hair that Deadpool's explosion had burned away, then evening it out on the other side. While he worked, Thomas began humming half under his breath, something that sounded vaguely Top 40, the sort of pop his employees would have played over the sound system years ago. It was an unconscious slip, but it was easy to see the tension leave him the longer he continued. It wasn't until he'd finished, his hair cut short, that Thomas noticed his own humming, and he stared at himself in the mirror.
"You're not bad, son," the barber, who had gone back to quietly sweeping up, observed. "Couldn't have done it better myself, back before the rheumatism got bad."
'You're pathetic, Raith,' he thought derisively, but he couldn't deny that a part of him had missed the salon, had missed the knowledge that he had done something, had built something of his own for himself, away from his family's influence. Just like he'd been trying to do here, but never quite managed. Maybe it was time to try again.