The man with the gloves [bucky barnes ff]

39

"You know," I start, "Many people believe that when you go through something in life, something sad that you're constantly reminded of, it's because all those memories are in your hair."

He chuckles. "What? In the hair? I already figured you had lost your mind when you told me about all this first snowfall folk telling but now you officially lost it."

"I mean, metaphorically speaking." I defend myself as I softly punch his arm. "Because your hair kind of went trough all of that with you. So many believe that if you cut off your hair you'll be able to cut off the pain and sadness you felt in those moments."

"Is that why many women cut off their hair after a break up?"

"I guess. They want change, you know? It's just hair and it's silly to make such a big deal about it but the old hair reminds them of the person they were. The person that was hurting, left and betrayed. So they cut it off. To become free of all of that." I don't want him to cut off his hair. It suits him. But I also don't know how else to help him. He won't talk to me about anything more than he has to and I don't want to push him so I guess I am trying to help him my way.

"So, do you think I should cut my hair?"

"I would never tell you what to do." I make clear. The decision is his. "I am just telling you a way that could maybe help you cope with your past. But maybe it will."

"I am not a fan of public places and a barber shop is pretty public."

"I have scissors." I offer. His eyes widen immediately causing me to laugh. "What? Why are you so surprised?"

He laughs louder and tilts his head back. "Isla, you are the most incompetent person I know. You are not even able to unlock the door with your left hand without dropping the keys and now you're trying to tell me that you're gonna cut my hair?"

"You're being really mean right now, you know that?" I playfully pretend to be hurt. "I actually cut myself bangs in seventh grade and it turned out pretty well." It didn't. I looked like I gave myself a bowl cut.

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you know me. It turned out terribly." I admit. "But I won't mess up your haircut. Promised."

He stares at me for a few seconds before nodding. "You know what, fine. What's the worst that can happen?"

I could ruin your hair and you could end up with a bald patch.

"Wait. Are you serious? You'll let me cut your hair?" I euphorically jump up. "Oh my god. I didn't think you'd actually give in."

"You better not mess this up." He stands up. I immediately take his hand and drag him to the bathroom where I tell him to sit down on the toilet seat. "You're a bit too excited for this. If you plan anything else than to just cut it, you'll regret it."

"Damn. Now you know that I planned on giving you a 90s style Mohawk haircut." I groan and take the scissors out of the small bathroom dresser. I have a pair to cut off my own split ends when I am too lazy or broke to go to the salon.

"You know that I don't understand those references."

"I'll look up 40s pop culture next time and make inside jokes about Billie Holiday or something."

"I know you're joking but I actually liked her music."

"You might want to take off your sweater." I say so it doesn't get all hairy and dirty. He nods and slowly takes it off so that he's sitting there in a white tank shirt. It's still weird to see his metal arm but I try to not stare at it since he's still not quite comfortable with it around me. "You like jazz music?"