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Asking that question now seemed pretty meaningless since he had already entered, but I suppose it was the thought that counted. The sound of Ace’s footsteps grew louder, only to abruptly come to a halt.
“What are you doing?” I could see Ace in the mirror, looking at me wide-eyed as I snipped off another inch of my hair.
“I’m cutting my hair,” I told him, even though it should have been obvious.
“I can see that…” He walked up behind me, taking time to examine me carefully from every angle. “What I meant was — why are you doing it yourself?”
I gave him a casual shrug. “I felt like it. And it isn’t like I can go to the salon, or something.”
“We could have figured something out,” Ace said, actually sounding troubled.
It didn’t look that bad, did it?
I put the scissors aside for a moment and combed my fingers through the damp strands of my hair. “How does it look in the back?”
“Absolutely terrible,” Ace answered without any hesitation.
I sighed. “Lovely.”
Betrayed, I glanced down at the phone strategically placed against the mirror. I knew that following this tutorial had been a bad idea.
But I had to give it to Ace — he didn’t even crack a grin, even though I could see how amusing he found this situation to be.
“Let me try to fix it. Or even it out, at least,” Ace offered.
I raised a skeptical eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. “You know how to cut hair?”
He shot me an unimpressed look. “Out of the three of us — you tell me who has the best hair.”
After taking a second to think about it, I wordlessly conceded with a nod.
It was sort of funny how their haircuts perfectly represented their distinct qualities.
Ace’s curls were as wild as him, matching his messy and carefree personality. Jack’s buzz-cut, neat and tidy, showed how efficient and practical he was. And King was somewhere in between, the balanced middle ground — although I suspected he had some notable quirks as well, he just managed to hide them better.
Or maybe I was just overthinking it and King could show up tomorrow with a mohawk.
It was way too late in the night to try correlating haircuts to personality types.
Somewhat apprehensive — but still willing to risk it — I handed the scissors over to Ace.
“What are you even doing here in the middle of the night, anyway? Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Why aren’t you?” Ace promptly turned the question back on me.
I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. Better not to annoy the kooky man with the sharp object in his hands.
“I asked you first. You were looking for me because…?”
Much to my surprise, Ace started combing my hair in a much more gentle manner than I had expected.
Who knew that he was capable of such a gentle touch?
“I saw that your lights were on and I was bored,” Ace responded, his voice tinged with something that sounded a lot like curiosity as he looked at the back of my head.
“Ah,” I said. That sounded like him.
But then I glanced at his face and saw the quizzical expression he was wearing, his eyebrows forming a light frown. His fingers gently pressed against my chin, coaxing my head to tilt to the side.
