Archive of Our Own ^beta

You’re just about to sink your fork into the flaky layers of filo when your door chimes.

Maybe, if you ignore it whoever it is will just go away.  You freeze, waiting... knowing you won't possibly be so lucky.

And it chimes again.

With a frown you shoot one last, despondent look to the dinner which will have to wait.

“Come in,” you say, trying your best to mask annoyance.  Whoever this is better be on fire, you think.

Then, in the doorway is the absolute last person you ever expected to see.

“Captain Janeway!” you practically yell in shock.  You leap backward from your chair and barely keep your food from flying across the table when you knock the plate with your arm.

“Am I interrupting?” she asks softly.

“No!” you answer quickly. “I mean, no, ma’am.”  You’re straight now, at attention.

“Please, Ensign,” she says with a hand in the air.  “This is your home, not mine.  At ease.”

With a steadying breath you relax a bit and wave her in, extremely grateful that you took the time to clean up your pile of dirty laundry this morning.

“I’m interrupting your dinner,” she observes.  “I’ll come back later.”

“No, Captain.  It’s fine, really.  What can I do for you?”

She’s inside all of the way now and she’s glancing briefly around your quarters.  You’d be damned but she looks uncomfortable.

“I’ve come to ask you a personal favor.”

“A favor?  From me?”

“Yes.  I’ve heard that you sometimes… well, that is…” and now, you can’t believe it but she actually does look nervous before she lifting her chin to say, “I hear you cut people’s hair.  From time to time.”

You feel a broad grin grace your lips.  “I do.  About a dozen of the women on the ship come to me, actually.  And a few of the men.”

“Where did you learn?” 

“My father was a barber… is a barber.  Today is his birthday, actually.  He insisted we all learn.”

She nods her approval, apparently your credentials are valid enough for what you suspect she’s come for.  “I was wondering, would you cut my hair?”

A quick glance to the fragrant dinner you abandoned on the table and you’re agreeing to something you never expected.  

Just minutes later she’s seated in your chair, her long, auburn locks damp with the mist from your spray bottle and you’re combing through them.  “How short do you want it?”

“Shoulder length, I think,” she replies.  “It doesn’t matter, really.  I just… I don’t want it long anymore.  Whatever you think would look nice.”

As you thread the strands through your fingers you realize just how long it really is.  Often tucked up in a bun or wound around a clip, you wonder if she’s even trimmed it more than a couple centimeters since being lost out here.   Truth-be-told you’ve always admired the captain’s hair.  There is something so effeminate about it, so… human.  You begin to wonder why it is that she’s choosing to cut it now.  

And then, the thought enters your mind that there might be more to this than just ease of a morning routine.  Words that your father used to mutter ring through your head, ‘A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.’

“Captain,” you say softly, readying your scissors on your fingers.  “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

She jerks her head to look at you.  Then she settles back with her eyes focused once again out your viewport as you realign your scissors.  “Why do you ask?”

Your first cut is rough, and slices away at a bulk of hair.  She’s been holding her breath, you realize, and with the first snip she releases it.  The clump falls to the floor.  

“Sometimes, I’ve found, people make a drastic change in their hairstyle to reflect a change in their personal life.  Either something has happened to them and they’re moving on, or they’re trying to start anew.  And it’s none of my business, but if you’d like to talk, the barber’s chair is a good place to do it.  At least, that’s what my father always said.”

“I appreciate that offer, but I really don’t want to talk about it.  It's just a haircut.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

The rest of her appointment progresses in silence.  With comb and scissors you work through the years of growth with ease, but each punctuated slice seems to make her tense even more.  

When you’re done with making sure the back is straight, you walk around to her front and stoop down on the balls of your feet, carefully, you pull both sides that frame her face and even them up.  For a moment, you catch her eyes.  They’re dark. Forlorn.

And you hope it’s not regret that you see, either for the haircut or the event that brought her to have the haircut in the first place.

She continues to sit, still as a statue and studying the stars while you brush off her neck.

“I’m done cutting now,” you inform her.  “Have you ever had short hair?  Would you like me to show you how to style it?”

She swallows hard.  “It’s been a long time, actually.  But I hate to delay your dinner any further.”

“It’s not a problem, I’ll be right back,” you tell her, and you disappear into your ‘fresher for a moment to get the sonic-dryer and a bit of product.

“You can wear it straight down, or curl it under a bit,” you say returning to where she hasn’t moved even a centimeter.  “Do you have a round brush like this?” you ask, showing her yours.

“No…”

“You can have mine,” you say.  “I never use it.”

She takes it from your outstretched hand.  “It’s beautiful,” she remarks, looking at the opalescent handle.  

“My dad gave me that,” you say with a smile.  “Along with the scissors and comb.  He told me never to be without them, that I’d always be useful if I could cut hair.  He apparently never thought much for the usefulness of my biology career, but, hey,” you shrug.

“I can’t take this,” she refuses, handing it back to you.

“Yes, you can.  I want you to have it, please,” you insist.  “Something new for a new start,” you chance.  "Or, a new haircut... whichever it may be."

She nods quietly, and you’re granted the only sliver of a smile you’ve seen so far this evening.  “Thank you.”

A few moments later and your lesson is done, her hair framing her face nicely.  She looks different, and yet…

“Do you like it?” you ask, handing her the mirror one final time.

“I think it will take some getting used to, but yes.”  Then she glances to the mess on the floor and your table, dinner sitting idle.

“I appreciate this, Ensign. I really do.  I just didn’t want to go to the holographic stylist.”

“I completely get it. That guy’s a jerk,” you say with a smile.  And she finally laughs.  

“Please, order a new dinner on my account,” she offers, rising from her chair.

You shrug, “All I really wanted was the dessert anyway and it’s still good.  Want to split it with me?  You’ve had my father’s haircut, it’s only fair you try my mother’s pastry.”

At that she breaks into a full grin.  “I’d love some.”