[identity profile] halfaustere.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] thedirtyverse
December 1959, a cold time to cut someone's long hair off!

It wasn't supposed to be that big of a deal.

It wasn't supposed to be that big of a deal, and it was a pain, and the worst part was that supposed to be a big deal or not, everyone else was making it one. There hadn't been much of a buildup, sure, and Robert hadn't really been all that interested in talking about the different ways of doing it, either.

He'd been hoping, really, that no one would even comment on it, but of course they did.

Honestly, it was just hair. Hair! He'd had long hair and then he had short hair instead. He still wore it in the same hat with the same brim and still wore the same labcoat and –

"Oh my God," another passing nurse said, and Robert was broken from his reverie by another annoying observation. "Your hair!" she continued, in a sort of chirp, and he was quietly amused at the thoughts people had about dating nurses. Most of them were silly chits who'd gone into the career for the short skirts and the glam and the parties, and not the medicine.

He'd been in medicine long enough to really care about it, regardless of the money managing a chain brought him. Regardless of the fact most people thought him the grandson of the actual Robert Capio who owned the chain – he should've established it under someone else's name, he thought, it would make working as a regular physician at Duchy a lot less complicated.

(Or maybe he should transfer to Bromely, where everyone was a snob anyway.)

"Yes," he said, placidly. "My hair. I have some of it."

"It's different!"

"I cut it. It was too long for surgery." New regulations had said this, not Robert.

He missed his long, shaggy waves, and everyone else pointing it out was just making it worse.

"It looks quite dashing."

"Thank you." Gag me with a spoon.

"No, really – you look like you hate it, but you'll realize soon enough how fine it makes you look!"

Robert started to wonder if maybe this one was a candy striper, not a nurse. She seemed to have a smaller amount of brain than any of the other girls combined. (He longed for war nurses and the WAC, suddenly. London under fire had been a lot easier to deal with, when it came to staff. People cared. Now, in the post-war calm, it seemed like no one did.)

"It feels greasy," was all he said, and turned back to his paperwork. Leave, girl. Leave me alone –

"But it looks good!"

"Like I said, thank you."

She obviously couldn't take a hint, and Robert shook his head, gathered his paperwork, and walked off to a different station. As he departed, he was aware of the other girls gathering around and talking, talking about how funny it was that he stayed away from everyone, and he seemed so uptight, and what was wrong with that man?

Passing himself off as twenty-four made it hard for him to say the answer was probably lingering shellshock.


The Dirty Life Universe

January 2010

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