Hanzo looked in the mirror in the tiny half bath off his dormitory on the Gibraltar base. His hair was growing out on the sides and back and every day it drove him mad. The tiny hairs now scattered on his neck itched at his soul and he found himself scratching the new growth on the sides. He needed to clean himself up. It was disgusting, sweat cutting rivers into it when he trained.
The small mirror in his hand did not promise success. Even with the borrowed clipper set. It should have been easy. He had watched several YouTube videos on the process. The new recruit Sombra had offered to help him, her own head half shaved.
But it was not Olivia’s touch he craved like a man dying of hunger before a feast. His brother would warn about the dangers of giving into impulsive desires. The monk had already offered to lead him in meditations to smooth the sharp edges time alone had chipped away.
There was someone on base with steady hands, carved by the gods themselves who he could hear from his bathroom. A low steady drawl singing along to a vinyl record by the cowboy across the hall drew him like a cord around his chest. Tugged with each word, Hanzo found himself walking to the tackily decorated door.