Every week, Dasha went to the beauty salon in the Recreation District. His hair was meticulously done and, while his skin was naturally clear, in this life where battle happened on the regular, it was important to get rid of blemishes before they seeped in.
The soothing hum of clippers and the soft chatter of the patrons echoed. Frank, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, was his barber. Eyes closed, Dasha distracted himself by subtly widening the flow of Qi inside his meridians.
"You should change."
An eye opened.
"Change clothes, I mean," Frank elaborated. "The Garbs of Death are the hallmark of a newbie."
"Your service is to cut, not to give."
Snip-snip. Frank nodded. "Of course, sir."
"Well, well, well, look who we have here. I was right about you."
