His stomach twists as he takes in all the hair products in the bag. Things have quadrupled that much since the forties? Why and how?

"No, no I'm not. And I don't even trust you with that."

He gestures toward the flat iron.

"What is it? Are you going to burn my hair off?"

But then he sighs when she begins combing through his hair with her hands. It's a surefire way to make someone sleepy, and he can't say it isn't working a little. The storm inside his head is still too heavy and thick, but he feels better, even if vulnerable.

All at the hands of a fifteen-year-old! What has he turned into?