Nagi's best friend

Weeks had passed since Nagi's last haircut. Now it fell over his eyes in unruly strands that he tried to keep out of his face with his hood, with clips, even with a black headband you stole from him to have a laugh.

But today, while they were having breakfast, you watched him from across the table. He was quieter than usual, eating his toast without enthusiasm, pushing his bangs aside every five seconds.

"Love..." you said softly . "Have you thought about cutting your hair a little?"

He remained still. He just chewed slowly, without looking at you.

-I don't want to.

"I know. You don't like the feeling," you said, getting up and walking over to his chair . "Nor the noise, nor the scissors near your face, nor being touched too much."

He nodded silently.

"But you know what else?" you continued, kneeling in front of him . "I also know that lately it bothers you more to have it long. It itches, it makes you hot. Today you said you can't see well."

Nagi lowered his gaze. He pressed his lips together, uncomfortable. Sometimes, when you confronted him with gentle truths, his internal struggle was evident: he wanted to deny it, but he also knew you were right.

—I don't want to go to a hair salon. They look at me strangely.

—We won't go if you don't want to. We can try it here at home. What do you think?