HaircuttingStories.com

As before, this work is a collaborative roleplay effort between Behold and Confrazzled. It was intended first and foremost as an enjoyable experience for the two writers involved, trading paragraphs back and forth. As such, it does not read quite like a traditional short story, though we thought that, now that it is completed, some of you might enjoy it as well . . .

The inciting inspiration for this tale was a frustrating incident that Confrazzled had at the salon, in which the stylist was less than respectful of Confrazzled's wishes. So the ever-patient Behold indulged her in a little catharsis and revenge fantasy . . .

Third mate Decker had never really been able to put into words what had ticked him off about the new Fourth Engineer, but he'd felt it right from the start. Something about her curt manners and her large vocabulary conferred upon her an air of arrogance he really couldn't stand. The fact that the engineering department seemed to be collectively in love with the fine aristocratic young miss had made it worse. He'd never known Chief Engineer Swain to utter a word of praise about any cadet, but Tristla Trebonnar invariably managed to put a smile on his face.

Decker didn't hate women. He'd worked with dozens in his time. Fine gals who drank with the boys, ate with the boys, didn't have any particular inhibitions about fucking the boys. This one. . . seemed too 'fine' for that. His wild days had ended many years before he finally let his favourite harpy back home slip a silver ring onto his worn, coarse hands, but still, he couldn't imagine her meeting any legitimate request from the boys down in engineering with anything other than an amused smile. And they all seemed to be eating out of her hand, nonetheless. Part of the attraction must've been her fine, long blue hair, he supposed. In a time when most young gals seemed to choose to wear their hair in shorter, Spartan arrangements, Tristla's silky, carpet-like mane was a sight to behold.

As she crossed the vent-plate threshold into the small cubicle in the ship's hold set aside for correction and maintenance to ship's standard, the young engineer's thoughts did not resemble the hardened third-in-command's. Not in the least. For Tristla Trebonnar was entirely focused on the ordeal ahead.

Well, not quite an ordeal, but this certainly did not feel like 'standard procedure' for

her. She had sported her mid-thigh-length locks through all of her schooldays at Xantherian's Empirical Academy, stained the vivid ultramarine of the school's regulation uniforms. Through carefully orchestrated follicular treatments of course, to prevent any unsightly and crude dye-lines. Nothing but the best for the students of the planet's most elite academy. And though it had been bursting with high-vaulting specimens of the most intelligent--and wealthy--echelons of society, the hair-related regulations had been almost incredibly lax. Three options of pre-prescribed lengths for females, each with a selection of three dress buns, a one more casual style of a smoothed queue. Tristla had always kept her hair clipped to the exact half-inch of the longest permitted, so that her hair, when loosened, whapped lightly to the exact half-mark of her thigh. She had known that with employment, her hair would need to be shortened according to regulation, and that very few positions--especially engineering positions--would permit her to keep such extreme lengths. And the clause of this particular contract appeared in Regulation book B, code 438. Code D, to be precise. One of only two possible styles, though allowances were occasionally made to grow between them. That would leave it extending a mere handspan beyond her surely-set shoulders.

A radical change to be certain, but a necessary one. After all, such regulations could not be defied without consequences. So here she stood, outfitted in her stark grey-streaked uniform, trimmed with bands of darker charcoal over the white suit. Prepared for what could have been standard procedure. "Fourth Engineer Trebonnar, reporting for remediation and assignment," the young woman bowed curtly, hair still bound up in her sleek Xantherian knot. Every muscle tense, but still prepared to meet and succeed every protocol.

Decker grunted, taking note of her bow. It wasn't too deferent. It certainly wasn't disrespectful. But it was too studied, too rehearsed. No doubt they gave those academy kids books with bows for all situations. "Five degrees for someone two ranks above you, half a degree less if he climbed up from enlisted rank, feet spaced apart half a foot's length. . ."

She wasn't his concern, really. She was two degrees of separation away from him in the chain of command. He could go months without seeing her, talking to her, or particularly needing to interact with her other than during chance encounters in the mess hall. Still, he couldn't stand her. And as he instructed her to stand at ease, he was overwhelmed by the powerful desire to teach little Miss Perfect some humility.

He eyed the thick, blue knot at the back of her head. He very much doubted it was allowed by protocol, although he couldn't quite place his finger on it. Of course, he'd never particularly cared about protocol. In fact, for any other woman, he'd been more than happy to conveniently forget about it. But other women were real. Other women had imperfections. Fourth Engineer Trebonnar seemed to have none. Except, possibly, this one.

"Well," he began "first of all, this 'remediation' should be mostly routine. Your vaccinations are listed in the file we received from the academy, and you were briefed on all ship-specific security protocols when we left dock a week ago." pausing to scrape his throat, he continued "I'm allowed to waive any further standard procedures if," he paused for emphasis "if you're willing to state for the record that, to the best of your knowledge, you are familiar and in agreement with all shipboard safety policies of the Ixaranth shipping corporation, and that you do not suffer from any physical, medical or psychological conditions that could conceivably impair your functioning as a member of this crew." Again, and less subtly, he eyed the thick, blue knot of hair at the back of Tristla's head.

I have read the ship's manual and the codebook of safety policies twice each, cover-to-cover, sir." Cover-to-cover, being, of course an archaic expression. Tristla had of course downloaded them to her palm-tablet, and read through them there. The more relevant sections to her job's requirements she could recite from heart, as she could that oh-so-crucial section regarding hair length. All of the rest of this was, fairly obviously, a frivolous prelude. Like an introduction to a document. Tristla had filled out the myriad forms and reports required to assume her position, all that required was this one final 'declaration' of sorts. "Xantherian's physician has forwarded his records to the ship's central systemry. The Technologists have likely assented to its download, should you wish to ascertain for certain. My own contract has been submitted and uploaded as well. And I have not to this date possessed and physical, medical, or psychological conditions to impede my integration or work. Though, as previously promised, the medical histories of my lineage have been similarly inserted into the ship's databases for perusal and review at the physician's leisure. Sir. All protocol has been followed to the digit, sir." She nodded curtly, to signal the completion of her answer. So all that remained was . . . well, her clipping, really. But protocol demanded that he initiate that as well. She stood at attention, stiffly waiting for his signal. A signal that she felt surprisingly reluctant about, really.

Decker grinned. She hadn't disappointed. Little Miss Perfect liked her Perfect hair a bit too much. "So," he began, speaking slowly and clearly "for the record, you do not consider your past-regulation hair to be a physical condition worth mentioning? We have very clear guidelines on hair length, Engineer fourth class Trebonnar. And I think yours is possibly more than twice the maximum allowed length."

She needed to be taken down a notch or two. And she'd given him the perfect opportunity. "Did you intentionally withhold information about that from me, Engineer Trebonnar?"

She felt a surge of disquiet roil in her gut, like the firing of a ship's engines before liftoff. "Uhh, no, Commander. It was not outlined on my physical listations and forms. I was under the impression that such a state would be remediated by command before the opportunity arose to impede my work."

"Then you are incredibly careless about ship's safety. These regulations exist for a reason, and this 'state', as you call it, should've been reported to the officer in charge of shipboard safety, namely myself, within hours after boarding. Not weeks." his voice had gotten louder, as he was beginning to mine her slip-up for all that it was worth. "As safety officer, I find carelessness even more worrying than selfishness." he continued. "This will most certainly be entered in your record."

"Also," he began "the colour of your hair is not conform company policy on professional appearance." technically, this was quite true, but nobody had ever thought to apply that policy to the engineering department, as the reclusive and dirty nature of their work made their generally scruffy appearance quite excusable. "At this point, I don't particularly expect you to be familiar with it." he hoped his voice conveyed the appropriate amount of paternal disappointment.

"We'll have to remedy that as well." he sighed, looking at her medical record. "Follicular treatment, hm? Expensive. And quite, quite unfortunate."

"How so?" Tristla asked, cursing internally at her lack of foresight regarding those exact letters of the regulation. She had felt confident that the requisite literature dictated only frequently-recoloured hair required remediation of that sort, for flamboyance. Having hair that grew blue was supposed to circumvent that little detail, and rather handily . . . and with the persistent pressures of Decker, her confidence was beginning to wane.

"It means that even if you dye your hair a different colour, you'll sprout blue roots within weeks. You'll have to dye it again and again, until you are able to have your follicular treatment adjusted. Or until your service term ends, whichever comes first." he couldn't quite resist that little jab. Kick her when she's down. "Also, the only hairdye we have on board is our stock of hydrogen peroxide, which, as I presume you know, is used as jetsuit propellant. Horrible stuff, I'm afraid.

"I'm sure you'll be most eager to comply with these rules from now on," he continued, "to avoid further black marks on your record. It's probably best if I cut your hair to regulation length right now."

Saying that, he retrieved a ten year-old pair of Ixaranth Corp IntelliScissors from a tidy drawer. Though more recent and larger vessels tended to carry a fully-equipped IntelliSalon, an old, cramped barge like the Oddesseur II required a certain economy of space to remain livable. Truth be told, he'd never minded his regular haircutting duty.

She tried not to eye the IntelliScissors too critically. She'd not seen such outmoded things, well, since she was a girl, really. Eight years, at the least. And really, the fresh graduate was surprised that they did not look too worn, or scuffed. But now was not the time to consider the manner of equipment; the ship knew its own budget and regulation grooming effects were not necessarily a frequent expenditure.

"Most certainly. The matter of the cut is imperative," Tristla replied crisply. Perhaps a little too crisply as she took the two swift strides towards the sleek white-and-grey uprising of the chair rather central to the little cubicle, seating herself in the basin of what looked like a cupped palm before she pulled loose the trio of careful-balanced pins from her hair and swept them into the diagonal dart of her suit's thigh pocket. Only then taking a moment to shake her mane loose from its still-gnarled knot, so that the tail of the vibrant sapphire braid swished loose, to swing pendulously a few inches above the floor. A fluid, rather practiced motion and arc, obliviously showy, from a habit that had ingrained itself through her academic years. "Regulation book B, code 438, part D must be adhered to. Though, code 437 in regards to engineers' hair colouration states that--"

"I am well aware of the regulations, Engineer, and you have already demonstrated your wilful ignorance of them." Decker bellowed. Had he ever known that there were specific exceptions for ship's engineers? Of course, he was a busy man, and he couldn't expect himself to keep up with all the changes to the company's regulations over the past thirty years.

"Take a seat. I will proceed to cut your hair regulation-length immediately." The IntelliScissors activated as he slid his fingers into the fingerholes. The micro-projection optics came to life, conjuring up a flickery multiple choice menu in thin air. Carelessly, he selected Female Hairstyle #2, the fifth of five choices. He took a breath, waiting for the IntelliScissors to latch on to the person with the most appropriate hair length nearby. But nothing really happened. Instead the scissors flashed a brusque, unhelpful "failure".

Damn things. They'd finally given up the ghost.

He considered letting Trebonnar take a look at them, but that would require him to acknowledge her greater expertise in these matters. And considering the scare he'd given her, he couldn't get away with postponing the cut.

How hard could it be? He'd gone through the motions dozens of times. Only this time, there would be no computerised guidance. Maybe the cut would come out a little rougher than usual. Was that really something that bothered him?

No, he grinned to himself as he clenched the scissors halfway around Tristla Trebonnar's braid, individual hairs severed by even the slightest touch of the sharpened ceramic blade. No, it would suit him just fine.

The first bite of the IntelliScissors startled her, even more than the commander's thick, sharp seizure of her braid. She was not expecting something so abrupt. The ceramic slice of the blades whished through her locks without the characteristic drone of the whir-bleep that she recalled from her youth. Just one scrunching slice . . . and then the swift lightening of her hair as it fanned forwards, falling over her shoulders as it slipped out of what was left of her braid. Wait, was this not too short for style #2? And perhaps choppier. "Commander, if I might?" her hands gripped rather tightly to the armrests of the chair. "Is everything progressing as procedurized?" He seemed inept, frustratingly inept. But still, this was standard procedure, she hoped. Even if the hair that had been a part of her for so long had been so unceremoniously severed . . . She had read literary works on this, in her first annum courses at Xantherian. Allusions to Earth-bound women of ages ago, before they implemented fully regulated hairstyles. And she could understand the attachment to those carefully-cultivated and meticulously maintained strands. Could feel it.

Tristla's braid unravelled slowly, for a moment only conjuring up the vivid image of the dark blue curtains of the family bedroom in his parent's house on Altair. How long had it been since he'd stared at them as a child? Watching the slowly unfolding pleats of deep, deepest blue had never failed to mesmerise him. Even back then he'd fantasized about becoming a sailor. Not a starsailor, but a real sailor, like the ones he read about in stories set on an Earth that was centuries away in both time and space. Altair had no seas. And this barge had no wooden deck that swayed. Or even stars flickering overhead. Radiation shielding doesn't allow for windows.

Engineer Trebonnar's question seemed to come from far away. It was only the bleep of the IntelliScissors that broke his trance, as they snapped to life and began projecting suggestions for places to cut onto the Engineer's head. Blue lines on blue hair. Not the best choice.

"Of course, Engineer." Decker snapped curtly, clipped words sharp as blades to discourage her from pressing the matter further. As he looked at the uneven unravelling of the young Officer's braid, part of him was glad that the IntelliScissors were at his disposal again. And part of him felt robbed of an opportunity to indulge himself. Maybe he should treat those cut lines as suggestions. Yes, that was it. There were no rules against taking a little creative liberty.

Still, as his hand grabbed a section of hair, he instinctively made sure to align the blades with the cut line exactly, the advanced algorithms of the IntelliScissors making sure that no cut took too much hair. Within a manner of minutes, he'd brought the uneven, half-unfolded braid back to a neat, very fine line just barely past her shoulders. A bit short for a #2. But no-one would notice.

As Decker's grimy hands fumbled through her locks, dragging through them brusquely she could not help reflecting that he had not steri-washed them first. She tried not to think of that. And simultaneously, tried to convince herself that it was only this that brought the not-so-distant burbles of discomfort. Tristla fought to quell this roiling feeling in her gut, something akin to an out-of-service engine. As if the conducive inhibitor had blown and her inner circuits frazzled haywire, though she fought to keep the appearance of outward calm. And managed.

At least, until a secondly-shortened strand flicked over her shoulder.

The words popped from her mouth before she could think. "This is not regulation length," she stated, tone stony and rather dumbfounded. He had . . . he had taken her glorious hair and hacked it, made a mess of it even with the IntelliScissors! She had known something was wrong, but not that he was entirely incompetent . . . she should have taken matters into her own hands even then. But as it was . . . However was she going to work this into the regulation-prescribed styles and buns, without those additional empiramps to work into the knots? The idea made her grit her teeth, ever so slightly, in frustration. And the bottom of her stomach drop out, like a waste hatch, in loss.

What? She'd noticed already? The girl must have eyes in the back of her head. Not purely an expression these days, although the costs and dangers of leading synthsynapses from the back of the skull to the visual cortex were high enough to dissuade all but the absurdly rich and eccentric.

Was that sweat forming on his forehead? Honestly, he hadn't taken off too much, but every time he'd taken a bit more than the IntelliScissors suggested, the cut had ended up looking more uneven, with the scissors flickering furiously as they recalculated new cutting lines for symmetry and aesthetics. Other crewmates, at times, had asked him to take off a little more, and nobody had minded small deviations from the rules. But, theoretically, Tristla was entitled to a Regulation haircut. Which means he'd have to explain why he hadn't given one.

Thinking about the other crewmembers made an idea enter his head. Crewman Geralds, she always asked him for a halfway cut. Either a short #2, or a very long #1, depending on how you looked at it. And she asked for that for a reason.

"You are fully qualified for Extravehicular repair, are you not?" he snapped, trying to put a degree of confidence in his voice that he didn't really have. The question was rhetorical; all Engineers had to be. "Then you must be aware that you're required to be on standby in case the EVR crew is incapacitated or cut off" This was also quite true; he was subject to the same requirement himself. And now for the biggest leap

"I assume you're also aware that EVR personnel have to be able to equip their suit within two minutes, thirty seconds, and are therefore not allowed to wear their hair to #2 length."

It fit perfectly, without even needing to bend the rules. It was just an interpretation of them that had never been used before. In fact, Decker could think of several EVR-trained crewmembers who wore their hair long. But in the Engineering department, everyone but Tristla opted for the shorter cut anyway.

"I'd been meaning to spare your hair a little, because you're obviously very attached to it." Decker continued, pushing the point a bit further. "But if you insist on regulation haircuts. . ." he didn't finish the sentence, but when he clicked the scissor menu button, the obvious alternative was projected very clearly into thin air.

Tristla fumbled, attempted to swallow a lump that had somehow formed in her throat. Grinding pistons for jaws and occlusions of the lungs' shared ventilation shaft. Her body had never felt so mechanized, and yet so concurrently rebellious. In need of servicing, perhaps, all but that one bit that certainly required none at all. That scrap of remaining hair, and he seemed so intent on shearing it away. Though perhaps . . . obscure regulation demanded this as well. Perhaps a third reading would have been warranted . . . This was not a sacrifice that she had been prepared for. A number one? "I am well aware of the regulations for Engineers, which exist irregardless of peremptory standby duties. I think that you misunderstand me. Clearly my only intent was to adhere to regulation, comprehensively, but . . . Commander, if you must." Words sufficiently and succinctly brave, without the barest shudder of her internal engine's turmoil. Tristla steeled herself, shoulders set box-like, waiting for that first fateful, irrevocable slice.

She fell for it. Maybe little miss Perfect wasn't so clever after all, if she could be goaded this easily. Book smarts were no match for an old seadog's cunning. Without her seeing it, he grinned as he selected the Female #1 cut, and watched a myriad of blue cutting lines being projected onto Tristla's head. He grinned more broadly as he turned the tolerance settings to 'zero', the net of blue laser lines turning into a tight cap around her skull.

As he brought the IntelliScissors closer to Tristla's hair again, the built-in hair humidifier's reservoir puffed and sputtered. It had been in need of a refill even when he'd retrieved it from his desk drawers. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist making the first cut. He wondered what she'd do when she found out she'd been conned. Probably report him to the Captain. But this ship, for all its faults, had a long tradition on playing cruel pranks on new sailors. The repercussions, if any, would be very mild. His grin only broadened as the first section of hair--one at the very top of her neck--was chewed off by the beak of the IntelliScissors.

A small gasp, like the hiss of a decompressing airlock, spurted from Tristla as the chilled ceramic of the IntelliScissors swiped across the tender skin of her nape, skin so rarely exposed. Not even exposed whilst she had worn her Xantherian regulation knot 4a. The subtle swish as the hair fell away, and the sprightly, sinking lightness left behind. This was . . . blast, this was short. Short as a man's cut. It was as it was, however. Irrevocable. Irrevocable, short of intensive follicular radiation at some elitist, offworld spa or other, not that she would ever be able to afford that sort of thing with a mere Fourth Engineer's salary.

And it seemed that this would be the cut she was confined to for the duration of her employment.

Blast.

"Well, I suppose it could always be worse." Decker began as the scissors projected a path from the back of the neck to just above Tristla's chin. "Be glad you're not assigned to janitorial duty. I was, once." It was a consolation that wasn't. For hygiene purposes, the janitors were required to keep their heads shaved.

Janitorial duty was generally only assigned to crewmembers in severe need of discipline. But with the disproportionate official reprimand he'd given her earlier, the little sentence could not be misunderstood as a veiled threat.

And perhaps. . . perhaps when the rest of the crew began to see her as he did, without the advantage of her mesmerising carpet of hair, then maybe she would find herself in the Janitorial department. She had a certain arrogance to her that would never have been tolerated from any other junior crewmember.

The thought cheered him up as the IntelliScissors directed him to cut the graduated layers the Company deemed to be Attractive Yet Professional on female crewmembers, each snip bringing the left side of Tristla's head closer to a short #1 with clockwork certainty.

"Remember that you're required to wear this style tucked behind your ears while on-duty" he mentioned, undoubtedly superfluously as that's the way the other women on board wore it both on and off. Although at this tightness setting, it might not be such an easy thing to do for her. If it made her look scruffy, Decker certainly didn't care.

"I shall review the files, sir. To ensure that no subtlety of the regulations elude me." She winced, the brief squinch of her eyes invisible from his particular angle. Small streamers of hair slipped as the blades whizzed onwards, plowing through the azure light of the prescribed gridwork. As the new angular lines of the left side began to emerge, a strange sort of architecture, still hanging wet, with the piffted spray.

And so short.

The thought stung her, sunk her further, but the man's janitorial barb sparked a frustration in her. This was not regulation, this was bullying. Subtle, yes, but unreasonable conduct of one officer towards another, as outlined effectively in the regulations, versed through approximately 89 to 147, or thereabouts. "Commander Decker, I can only assume that a man of your position is well-versed in the Unreasonable Conduct violations outlined in sections 89 to 147? Perhaps, more specifically, the vicinity of 121-124."

The wave of anger sparked by his outrage made him snip off a much larger chunk of hair than indicated, the IntelliScissors protesting furiously as they rearranged the grid pattern to match. He wanted to hurt this arrogant little Princess.

"I most certainly am aware of them, Fourth Engineer Trebonnar." he spoke. "Which is the reason I chose to subtly remind you of the likely consequences of your arrogant and careless behaviour, rather than warn you outright." Oh, if only he could make the decision himself. He wanted to see her in tears, her arrogance broken by the prospect of having to shave her head. Again he cut one chunk, than another, not even bothering to look at the faint laser-lines on her indigo locks.

"Turn around", he snapped. The scissors didn't think this side of her hair was finished, suggesting a myriad of corrections to bring it back into order. But it sort of looked like a #1. And that was good enough for Engineer Trebonnar, he decided.

"Pardon my outburst, Commander," Tristla she replied, through fair to gritted teeth, and an increasingly-painful rain of blue sniplets that seemed to have lost all attempt at symmetry and whatever it was that a # 1 was supposed to look like. Each jerk-slice of the implement felt like a little stab. An aggravated spark having kindled within her, like the flipping of a lever or twist of a valve, seemed to have evapourated near to all of Tristla's patience with a spurt of steam. And now that it had cleared somewhat, a frustrated flicker was very, very apparent in her gaze. Not that Commander Decker was paying any attention whatsoever to the subtle behavioural cues that hinted at her newly-charted psychological direction. He was, evidently, not paying attention to much at all. Which was precisely why he had misinterpreted the basic premise of the regulations she had referenced. The prescribed code of conduct of a superior towards a subordinate. And yet another crucial detail seemed to have eluded him. "You seem to forget that I am seated in this chair, and the levers of its command are at your control, Commander."

Decker grunted. She was right, and he was getting carried away with this. He turned the dial that controlled the chair's orientation, until Tristla's right side faced him. The network of lines projected on the virgin mass of blue locks looked even more finely-mazed than before, the IntelliScissors trying to impose some degree of symmetry on his haphazard cutting style.

He didn't bother with half of them, instead choosing to forcefully pull all her hair together in his hand, and cut it off with a single snip of the eversharp dry blades. He could even it out on the other side later. Or maybe he wouldn't.

Again he tugged harshly on a lock of her hair, again placing the blades several dozen empiriamps higher than indicated. He enjoyed cutting hair. He enjoyed humiliating her like this. But more than that, he enjoyed her proud, impassive stare as she tried to ignore his forceful tugging. He enjoyed it so much, that, while taking chunk after chunk of hair, it never even occurred to him that he was beginning to grin broadly.

There was nothing that she could really do, save grit her teeth and wait as her stomach roiled, clenched and unclenched, as if some bored, distracted, and longstanding unsupervised mechanic opened and closed the vice-like jaws of a clamp about it. As he chipped away more and more of her beautiful hair. Lock after scintillating lock stripped away, left to hang near to her chin--her CHIN--in places. Craggy in places, like the tumbled face of an unrestrained, off-world cliff. And to be honest, this process resembled nothing more than bereft strip mining. Mining for sapphire locks, like they used to do on Earth, long ago. Stripping it away for use, and leaving bare tracts and scars along the landscape. Somehow this parallel gave her little comfort, though it did draw steel to the newly-inducted Engineer's spine.

For all of her fussing and discomfort, though, try as she might to quell it, her rage only escalated. This certainly looked like no # 1 of any engineer she had seen, and Tristla had indeed seen many through the rigorous interview and testing process of her job application. "This is far from professional conduct," she stated, barefaced. Increasingly barefaced, without the customary indigo curtainry to shield it.

Decker's mental imagery, meanwhile, was dominated by the picture of Tristla working near the ship's trash compactor. When was the last time he'd done that himself? More than five years ago. But he vividly remembered the beads of sweat on his bald head, the putrid stench, the ear-splitting noise of the grinding jaws of the compactor, and the back-breaking work of feeding them a steady flow of garbage. The weeks it took to grow out his hair to anything resembling a male #1 cut. Janitorial duty was designed to be a long, hard lesson in humility, and he'd needed several of them to straighten him out. Just like Tristla seemed desperately in need of a few.

The jaws of the IntelliScissors ate Tristla's hair empiriamp by empiriamp, its advanced projectors occasionally flickering in violent protest against the way he perverted them to dumb, mindless cutting tools. In his hands, they formed a machine as merciless and hungry as the unsecured maul of the compactor, which, reputedly, ate human beings as readily as it did garbage.

Was she still giving him lip? How stupid could she be? "It's about time you learnt the laws of the sea, missy," Decker spoke, his voice hoarse, "and they can't be learnt from a book." Speaking those words, he grabbed a large chunk of hair just above Tristla's ear, closed his palm around it. The ends of formed only a barely noticeable blue tuft sticking out of it, even though his index finger practically touched the engineer's scalp. "Fortunately for you, they're real simple. One. You do as you're told." without even thinking, he accompanied the last syllable of his sentence with a twist of his hand. The lieutenant let out a barely noticeable squeal, but the set of her jaw remained as impassive as ever. "Two. Unless spoken to, you stay put." Another twist, but an anticipated one, her jaw visibly tightening moments before it. But Decker wasn't done yet. "And three, when you're shorn, you sit still." Instead of a twist, the last syllable of this sentence was accompanied by a slice of the IntelliScissors' ceramic blades only just above his hand's index finger. The sudden severance causing his left hand to fly backwards, fingers still tightly clasped around a separated hank of indigo hair.

The IntelliScissors, which had been his unwilling accomplices so far, chirped with computerized rage, then shut down in protest, returning to the style selection menu. A menu with all but one option greyed out, for the very visible thatch of shorn, blue hair on Engineer Trebonnar's head left no possibility of any of the company's longer styles--male or female--in the near future.

A swift shock of cool, ship-stale air whickered across the patch on her scalp.

Tristla didn't think, didn't anticipate, just reacted. And her reaction was to brace her feet upon the floor, and push off wildly, so that she faced Decker, her own eyes blazing. Decker, in some sort of euphoric shock, clutching that tassel of her hair like some sort of bouquet. Or some sort of . . . precursory step. The rest of his grey-white-gold uniform streaked with little caught streamers of indigo, fat and thin, varying from a single strand to larger hanks, and in length of a hand's span to a few mere minute emperiamps sprinkling over like old-Earth confetti. But she looked beyond that, beyond even the mean-spirited troll of a proletariat scumbag that stood beyond him and saw . . . saw the equivocation of a Martial Practice Training ModBudd XVII, from the knobbly, white spherical joints down to the grid-like 't' superimposed over his flattened-out face.

And beyond that, there was nothing to do but react. She burst from the chair with all the force of a freshly-charged Glidgetpulle AX, a fist solidly connecting with his jaw. A crack was heard, and Tristla dimly realized that such as a entirely foreign noise for Martial Practice Training ModBudd XVII . And furthermore, she did not care. Simply set to pummelling him, with whirling fists pounding stroke after stroke as her legs assumed a fighter's practiced, ready stance.

The sudden, sharp, splitting pain left Decker dazed and confused, blue tendrils slipping through the fingers of his hand when he opened it to caress his almost certainly broken teeth, his right, scissor-wielding hand raised up in a weak defence against the onslaught of Tristla's blows.

Soon, however, his instincts--honed by many a bar brawl--took over, as he put some distance between himself and the furious young Engineer, assuming the same, well-trained stance. Generations of careful genetic engineering had made the natural strength advantage of the male gender almost entirely optional, but Decker had won many a fight not by virtue of greater strength, but by his ability to recover from blows. The little blue-haired bitch might have some fire to her, he mused, but she'd get her come-uppance now. He grinned a smile of broken teeth, almost begging her to take a shot at him again.

The perceptible change in expression that passed over Decker's face, beneath the superimposed transparency of the recollected Martial Practice Training ModBudd XVII somehow registered in Tristla's awareness, manifesting in a sinking weight. However, the adrenaline fast-rushing through the circulatory circuitry of branchworks that looped and laced throughout her body, ferrying the stimulating hormone to all of her tissues and elevating her alertness manifold,relieved that weight rather quickly. So, she had lost her element of surprise. Tristla was, however, superiorly trained, superiorly outfitted, superiorly enraged, and superior in physique, and certainly surpassed his morals. And there was something about that now-crooked smile that spurred her onwards. He had broken a part of her, and she, well, she had reciprocated. And she was far from finished.

Her next few blows were punches, as well, designed mostly to lull him into a security with her, believe himself her equal in prowess. And they seemed to work, for all that one hand was mostly disabled, still grasping as it was to the IntelliScissors. Which was why he would not expect the swift kick that hooked around to the back of his knees, whacking with all of the force of the fresh-graduate's wiry, slender frame.

It began to dawn on Decker that his opponent wasn't just another drunk sailor. About right around the time his spine smashed against the deck, the IntelliScissors flying out of his right hand, clattering over the floor until the ceramic blades broke into half a dozen shards. Still, his experience caused him to expect his opponent to dive on top of him, to continue the barrage of relatively harmless upper-body blows that generally dominated fights amongst males.

Quickly, he rolled away, causing her to lose the advantage her standing position bestowed on her as she jumped on top of him, tensing his muscles in preparation for a good, hard blow that would give the feisty Engineer some broken teeth to go with her broken hair. That was the plan, anyway, for his face collided harshly with a steel-capped Engineer's boot around halfway through his cleverly-devised maneuver.

The deep, cracking sound that seemed to split through his skull and resonate in his inner ear made his stomach turn even before the same boot he'd felt on his face hit home there. He doubled over on the floor, tears welling up in his eyes as his mind blanked out thoughts about anything other than how to make the pain stop.

She grappled with him now, the scuffle escalating to something beyond mad blows raining in their random succession, meteors slamming directly upon the unshielded husk of his hull, leaving tenderized, smooshy bruises in the place of divots and dents. Her toe brushed against something, barely perceptible at first but then that telltale thump determined that it could not be anything but what she suspected. Her severed braid.

Even the small contact with it was enough to spark her anger further, and contort her vented pummelling to a new direction. Planting her knees firmly on either side of him, Tristla twisted about and in one swift, fluid motion grabbed her half-frayed braid. Nearly the length of her arm, from wrist to shoulder, it was. And it reminded her of nothing more than an odd little contraption called the nun-chucks. And at the moment, there was nothing she wished more than to loop it round his pale neck--but wait, she was no longer wishing to. Her calculating hands were carrying it out, cinching it tighter and tighter as his eyes bulged buggy. She leaned forward, haphazard fringe of her hair falling over her flushed, frenzied, and tooth-gritted countenance. "You cannot . . . do this to people. It . . . is against protocol." Growling each word clipped and concise through her locked jaw, Tristla cinched tighter. Could not repress a grim grin as he waxed bluish. "When you break protocol, protocol gets broken back. And smacks you in the despicable face. Do you understand?" She did not slacken her grip, nor did she tighten it. He could nod, if he tried. That would be enough.

Decker had gasped for air when the rain of blows seemed to stop for a moment, already grateful for a moment's reprieve from the punishment being dealt to him. His thoughts were confused, erratic. He'd expected the young engineer to be cowed, hurt, frightened by his intimidation. He'd expected her to turn to the Captain for redress, do everything by the book. Even now, his mind couldn't grasp the fact that Fourth Engineer Tristla Trebonnar was capable of assaulting a superior officer like this.

Which made the shock of feeling a soft, silk-like noose wrapped around his neck all the more painful, even apart from the pain caused by the quickly-mounting firmness with which it choked off his windpipe. From the blue flashes at edge of his vision, his mind supplied him with the grim reality of the situation. She was choking him with her own braid. She was going to kill him. Disbelief gave way to pure, unrestricted terror as his hands tried to find her arms, flailing wildly as his vision blurred. She said something. He couldn't make out the words. But he understood. Oh yes, he understood.

She loosened the cord slightly, only slightly, allowing him a few gasping breaths before drawing it taut again. "You are despicable. You are scum, trying to take advantage of your position of power to inflate your own ego further. Say it. You are scum." She gave the cord a slight tug, a premonitory squeeze, and her knees too squeezed about him, still holding the 'commander' pinned. But it was she that would give the commands now.

Decker didn't even connect the slight release he was given with the assenting sound he'd made earlier, but welcomed the opportunity to draw air back into his lungs, the oxygen-rich blood restoring his sight, his ability to think. . . and then his supply was closed off again, and he was fully aware of what was happening to him. He could grab her arms, try to break her elbows, like he was trained to do. But all she had to do was to pull the indigo noose a little harder. He was defeated, and completely--completely--at her mercy.

"I am scum" he croaked. And saying that, he came the closest he'd ever been in his life to true introspection.

The weight on Decker shifted slightly as Tristla leaned forwards, her words dripping icily now, less feral in their intensity. "You are worthless, and beyond that, you are a bully. Exchange of power, Decker, is voluntary, even towards a commander. And it would do you best to remember that. I have shown you this once, and I can do it again. You do understand, yes?"

"Yes," he gasped, his autonomous systems protesting at the expense of even this tiny bit of oxygen-deprived air. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted the crazy blue-haired fury to let him live.

The fellow swooned clear towards passing out and that, Tristla decided, was not entirely necessary. She slackened the makeshift nun-chucks slightly, just enough so that he would not slip into surreality with a dazzle of flickering dots and pseudo-starlight. And leaned forwards, so that the longest tendrils of her haphazard-hacked hair near to brushed his cheek. "I could grind you to a bloody pulp right now, but I choose not to. Instead, we can reach some sort of an understanding. This will NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN. Not to me, nor to any other recruit. I shall handle my own hair-related remediation from this point, under your supervision. You will not issue me any untoward or vindictive orders. The only commands you may issue are those that come directly for your superiors. And you shall speak of this to no one. Do we have an understanding?" She jerked the ultramarine tail once more, for emphasis.

Decker had been humiliated like this before. He'd never been the easiest sailor to work with, so on more than one occasion, his superiors had had to yank the chain of command rather forcefully to show him who was boss. Just as Tristla was yanking the braid around his neck now.

He'd never been beaten by a subordinate before. He'd never been beaten by a girl before. But he knew defeat when he experienced it. And he knew the appropriate response. "Yes ma'am."

"You will be held to it, to the utmost," she warned him, only then easing off of the man's crumpled, battered form to stand herself aright. But she did not flee the scene of her personal crime, her breach of protocol, her private vengeance. Instead, she foraged through the pouchlet of her suit, withdrawing the palm-tablet to view her mirrored reflection. And tried not to let her expression fall too far. One side of her hair hovered with a few strands just beneath her jawline whilst the other reached barely ten empiriamps beneath her earlobe, halfways to her chin. Blast. She could not be seen like this. Her heart sank further, though she did not let this expression show over her face, nor in her tone. "Have you any allotted ManiTrims?" was all that she asked of the still–prostrate man.

Weakly, Decker gestured at the drawer from which he'd retrieved the IntelliScissors earlier. He was supposed to hand them out only sparingly, but he had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to refuse Tristla Trebonnar many things from now on. In practice, if not in theory, she was his superior now.

She took the finger-long device, almost pocketed it. But then realized that she could not perform this operation elsewhere. Nowhere else in the ship possessed allotted receptacles for hair disposal. Thinking of her hair, from the beauteous, practical severed snake to the shortened streamers and sprinklings now strewn about the room, to the ragged mop of indigo that still crested her head--would still crest her head, as there was no coercion that he could spring to force her to bleach the blue out--thinking of her hair, Tristla regretted mowing it further, but it did need to be sleekened. "Hold this," she told him, extending the palm-tablet. "Steady," she instructed, fingering one of the few remaining longer strands, one of the few that had evaded his mowing spree.

As it dawned on him what she was going to do, Decker complied. And for the first time since she'd come aboard, his mind was open enough to get a hint of the admiration Fourth Engineer Trebonnar had inspired in her fellow officers. He knew what kind of effort it must cost her, to clean up what . . . what he had done to her. But nevertheless, she would. Because a professional appearance was demanded of her.

"Steady," she reminded him, pressing the top of the palm-tablet slightly so that it caught more of her face in its portal. Pursing her lips stubbornly, she inspected the ManiTrim, setting its few crude buttons to 'coarse' mode and ensuring that she placed a finger-pad overtop the scarlet-bleeping sensor so that it's minuscule ceramic blades bit blindly. Hair and nails were both keratin, yes? So the device should be sufficiently congruent. As it whizzed to life, Tristla pulled taut the offending strand, and stroked the blades through her hair. The severance was swift, leaving a palm's-width tuft of hair in her hand. She turned her head sideways, noting another straggling strand. Oop! And snicked that off, as well.

Each slice still felt like a little death, but it was a self-inflicted death. A point of pride, and one necessary if she wished to hold her head up proudly, in the ensuing months aboard the ship. And so she tugged each strand, slowly evening the hemline, even about the back of her head, and tried to sculpt some shape and symmetry into the front. As much as she could without losing more of her length. The careful snips, governed by the Engineer's informal code that had hovered about and floated through the discipline for centuries, even predating spacefaring, of 'measure twice, cut once.' Gradually the self-inflicted schnicks slowed, only the odd one here and there, only a few empiriamps dropping to the floor. Carefully, and stonefaced, Tristla scrutinized her reflection.

Holding the mirror, Decker was mesmerised by the Engineer's little balancing act. It also seemed as if her untrained but steady hands were much more able to restore order to the tangled, uneven mess he'd left than he had been when he'd chosen to disregard the IntelliScissors' suggestions. Maybe she was more motivated to clean herself up? Or maybe Engineers had more of a natural ability to balance complex systems.

In any case, what appeared was something vaguely resembling a very short #1. Not the length, of course, but the appropriate lines were still there. A long lock left untouched near her forehead puzzled him, until he realised that it would just about cover the bald spot he cut earlier if it were pinned or slicked back.

She'd walk away from this without any embarassment, without even a scuff mark on her from the same fight that had left him with several broken teeth, bruised ribs and, he guessed, a fractured cheekbone. She'd walk away from this as if he'd only given her a regulation haircut.

Done. At least, to the best of her ability. She brushed the caught sniplets from her shoulders and chest, and then the sole long lock backwards from her temple, hiding the shorn patch of scalp that threatened to peek through. Without further fussing, Tristla plucked the palm-tablet from his hands and dangled the ManiTrim within his fingers, waiting for him to grasp the capsule-like device, affixing him with a stare. "The IntelliScissors malfunctioned. You will fill out all of the necessary paperwork to enable me to grow my hair out to a #2." She did not say anything more, simply dropped the ManiTrim into his probably-waiting fingers without waiting to see if it clattered to the floor, or furthermore, for any of his reaction. There were other aspects of her orientation, after all. She was to meet on the ship's bridge with the Second Engineer once her remediation was complete. And thus she would. Promptly.

"You . . . you don't need paperwork." Decker spoke. Might as well fess up now. "You're an engineer, you can wear your hair anyway you want to, as long as it's not longer than a #2." He paused. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure she heard him say that as the doors closed behind her.

The sharp click of her heels echoed through the bridge, proclaiming the Fourth Engineer's arrival far before the portal whizzed open with a whoosh of circulatory ship's air, already a little stale despite being still docked, with all air vents open to take in some of the balanced planetary atmosphere. Another thing to get used to, this stale air, just like this newfound lightness atop her head, the bristle-severed strands with their blunt ends prickling at the back of her neck.

She had forgotten to suck up the shreds with the AdjustaVac XN, that was what Tristla had forgotten. But no matter. Her first shift's duties, following orientation, would span a bare few hours. So Tristla balled her fingers to fists at her sides, to avoid playing with the severed silkiness that was the remnants of her vivid indigo hair, for she was far too disciplined to reveal such a tell. Instead, she stepped into the antechamber, ablink with lights and telescreens, and assumed strict attention. "Fourth Engineer Tristla, reporting for duties," she spoke curtly, drowning out self-consciousness in entirety.

Second Engineer Garth Nader looked up from his palm-tablet, happy to have the clever young Engineer on the bridge. He'd been looking over a problem, and he really could use some input from her. But when he looked up, all thoughts about the secondary dynacoil assembly vanished when his eyes didn't meet the familiar, thick blue bun, but a severely short regulation haircut that had taken its place. Damn. He'd been meaning to call her about that, notify her that it wasn't necessary. . . too late it seemed.

And so short. . . "Tristla, uh," he began, wondering what to say. Strangely enough, it was just like the young Fourth Engineer to do something like this, to sacrifice her hair for the sake of efficiency. And to go well above what was required of her in doing so. "Nice hair." he managed to say, politely feigning appreciation for something she must have had her mind set on for quite a while. "Quite . . . efficient. It suits you." that much was true--it didn't look bad. But he'd liked the little contradiction that the hyper-efficient officer with her atavistically feminine long hair had represented. That contradiction was gone now. Still, he had to respect her choice.

"Not quite regulation, I confess. The IntelliScissors had a slight malfunction," she admitted, a little grimace penetrating the plastic-firm expression.

A slight malfunction? That's how she would justify her choice, wouldn't she? He could easily picture her demanding an ever-shorter cut from poor Decker. Or taking the scissors to her hair by herself just to prove she could do it. Still, it was a damn shame she'd tried so hard to comply with a regulation that no longer existed.

"Regulation doesn't factor into it anymore." he replied. "The company abolished all mandatory hair styles three months ago, so you can wear your hair as short as you want to." And she probably would, once they reached Deneb IV. A shame. "There are several more changes in regulations I'll want you to review. They didn't reach us until now due to light speed delays, but I'll want a qualified report from you on which ones we can try to comply with retro-actively."

As the young engineer turned around, he couldn't help but tease her a little. "You know, you can still go back. A couple of employees back on Earth won a class-action lawsuit. The company has to provide follicular radiation treatments to all crewmembers who wore their hair longer than #2 length."

"You know, I might just consider that," Tristla replied, the words snapping out as she slipped a little from her rigid attention, towards meeting the casual level of formality that Nader offered. Almost. It would not do to be more casual than one's superior. "If the requisite hours might be budgeted away from the ship, without hassle, and no such major inconvenience is incurred."

"I think we'll be able to manage it when we reach Deneb," he spoke, putting a bit of mock seriousness in his voice, "although I'd have to consult the ship's duty roster to be sure." Quite unexpected. Maybe she changed her mind already. Or maybe she regretted her brash decision. In any case, Nader couldn't help but smile. Continents might sink, stars might shift, but women, it seemed, would always be women.

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