Imagine a member of the Command team comes to you with a personal request.

mia-cooper:

jhelenoftrek:

Oh, so many ways I could have gone w/ this.  But, then this idea hit me square in the face and I couldn’t resist.  Hope you like, anon!

---

You’ve got an incredible looking dinner in front of you, the
computer is playing relaxing music, your boots and jacket have been kicked
off for the night.  You’ve been saving your replicator
rations all week because today, today is your father’s birthday.  And on your father’s birthday there is always
a fantastic spread.  Today is not a day
for eating Neelix’s cooking, no sir.
Today is a day for spanakopita and pilaf and a gigantic piece of baklava
for dessert.  It’s hot out of the
replicator and it smells absolutely divine.

You’re just about to sink your fork into the flaky
layers of filo when your door chimes.

Maybe, if you ignore it whoever it is will just go
away.  You freeze, waiting.

And it chimes again.

With a frown you shoot one last, despondent look to the
dinner which will have to wait.

“Come in,” you say, trying your best to mask annoyance.  Whoever
this is better be on fire, you think.

Then, in the doorway is the absolute last person you ever expected to see.

“Captain Janeway!” you practically yell in shock.  You leap backward from your chair and barely
keep your food from flying across the table when you knock the plate with your
arm.

“Am I interrupting?” she asks softly.

“No!” you answer quickly.
“I mean, no, ma’am.”  You’re
straight now, at attention.

“Please, Ensign,” she says with a hand in the air.  “This is your home, not mine.  At ease.”

With a steadying breath you relax a bit and wave her in,
extremely grateful that you took the time to clean up this morning.

“I’m interrupting your dinner,” she observes.  “I’ll come back later.”

“No, Captain.  It’s
fine, really.  What can I do for you?”

She’s inside all of the way now and she’s glancing briefly
around your quarters.  You’d be damned
but she looks uncomfortable.

“I’ve come to ask you a personal favor.”

“A favor?”

“Yes.  I’ve heard that
you sometimes… well, that is…” and now, you can’t believe it but she actually
does look nervous before she lifting her chin to say, “I hear you cut people’s
hair.  From time to time.”

You feel a broad grin grace your lips.  “I do.
About a dozen of the women on the ship come to me, actually.  And a few of the men.”

“Where did you learn?” 

“My father was a barber… is a barber.  Today is his birthday, actually.  He insisted we all learn.”

She nods her approval, apparently your credentials are valid
enough for what you suspect she’s come for.  “I was
wondering, would you cut my hair?”

A quick glance to the fragrant dinner you abandoned on the
table and you’re agreeing to something you never expected.  

Just minutes later she’s seated in your chair, her long,
auburn locks damp with the mist from your spray bottle and you’re combing through them.  “How short do you want it?”

“Shoulder length, I think,” she replies.  “It doesn’t matter, really.  I just… I don’t want it long anymore.  Whatever you think would look nice.”

As you thread the strands through your fingers you realize
just how long it really is.  Often tucked
up in a bun or wound around a clip, you wonder if she’s even trimmed it more
than a couple centimeters since being lost out here.   Truth-be-told you’ve always admired the
captain’s hair.  There is something so
effeminate about it, so… human.  You
begin to wonder why it is that she’s choosing to cut it now.  

And then, the thought enters your mind that there might be
more to this than just ease of a morning routine.  Words that your father used to mutter ring
through your head, ‘A woman who cuts her
hair is about to change her life.’

“Captain,” you say softly, readying your scissors on your
fingers.  “Is there anything you’d like
to talk about?”

She jerks her head to look at you.  Then she settles back with her eyes focused
once again out your viewport as you realign your scissors.  “Why do you ask?”

Your first cut is rough, and slices away at a bulk of
hair.  She’s been holding her breath, you
realize, and with the first snip she releases it.  The clump falls to the floor.  

“Sometimes, I’ve found, people make a drastic change in
their hairstyle to reflect a change in their personal life.  Either something has happened to them and
they’re moving on, or they’re trying to start anew.  And it’s none of my business, but if you’d
like to talk, the barber’s chair is a good place to do it.  At least, that’s what my father always said.”

“I appreciate that
offer, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

The rest of her appointment progresses in silence.  With comb and scissors you work through the
years of growth with ease, but each punctuated slice seems to make her tense
even more.  

When you’re done with making sure the back is straight, you
walk around to her front and stoop down on the balls of your feet, carefully,
you pull both sides that frame her face and even them up.  For a moment, you catch her eyes.  They’re dark.
Forlorn.

And you hope it’s not regret that you see, either for the haircut or the event that brought her to have the haircut in the first place.

She continues to sit, still as a statue and studying the
stars while you brush off her neck.

“I’m done cutting now,” you inform her.  “Have you ever had short hair?  Would you like me to show you how to style
it?”

She swallows hard.  “It’s
been a long time, actually.  But I hate
to delay your dinner any further.”

“It’s not a problem, I’ll be right back,” you tell her, and
you disappear into your ‘fresher for a moment to get your hand-dryer and a bit
of product.

“You can wear it straight down, or curl it under a bit,” you
say returning to where she hasn’t moved even a centimeter.  “Do you have a round brush like this?” you
ask, showing her yours.

“No…”

“You can have mine,” you say.  “I never use it.”

She takes it from your outstretched hand.  “It’s beautiful,” she remarks, looking at the
opalescent handle.  

“My dad gave me that,” you say with a smile.  “Along with the scissors and comb.  He told me never to be without them, that I’d
always be useful if I could cut hair.  He
apparently never thought much for the usefulness of my biology career, but,
hey,” you shrug.

“I can’t take this,” she refuses, handing it back to you.

“Yes, you can.  I want
you to have it, please,” you insist.  “Something new for a new start,” you chance.

She nods quietly, and you’re granted the only sliver of a smile
you’ve seen so far this evening.  “Thank
you.”

A few moments later and your lesson is done, her hair
framing her face nicely.  She looks
different, and yet…

“Do you like it?” you ask, handing her the mirror one final
time.

“I think it will take some getting used to, but yes.”  Then she glances to the mess on the floor and
your table, dinner sitting idle.

“I appreciate this, Ensign.
I really do.  I just didn’t want
to go to the holographic stylist.”

“I completely get it.
That guy’s a jerk,” you say with a smile.  And she finally laughs.  

“Please, order a new dinner on my account,” she offers,
rising from her chair.

You shrug, “All I really wanted was the dessert anyway and
it’s still good.  Want to split it with
me?  You’ve had my father’s haircut, it’s
only fair you try my mother’s pastry.”

At that she breaks into a full grin.  “I’d love some.”

Oh 😦

But fantastic, as always.