He watched her staring at his head, intermittently checking in the drawer again for the tool required by her in whatever convoluted plans she had as regarded his face and head. He watched her: 6”2, all legs – unlike him, he had enough over her to look down upon her from a height, just about – but he was still a squat cumbersome creature – in proportion – all torso, and the stubby trunks upon which he stood, a trunk upon trunks – but she was all legs – to the top.

Long brunette hair tied back in a kind of trellis – no lattice – down her back, whatever; massive brown – almost golden – eyes. Eyes. But he could not even mention that and he could not even indicate to her the tenor of his feelings – he didn't/couldn't have to hide his banal sexual attraction, and had no intention of hiding his banal sexual attraction to her but –

But despite her connection to the Old Dark Weird Religion and a concept of – and the accompanying concept of what actually a Cyclops was. In his nature. Despite her connection to old and deep and true – this – truth – the – there was a weight behind modernity, even; behind the total thing in which they'd always lived, in which they still lived; only a newer version.

And that didn't – perhaps this was merely training he had to discard like everything else, like everything, like her training – but anyway, whatever the reason he felt the necessity of hiding the true, full, tenor of his feelings, from her – the parts that weren't physical; the parts in fact that were connected to an idea of beauty, to a form of romance, to in fact an ideal. Because despite who she was... he sensed this deeply and barely understood it... she was still of, this world. And therefore he had to conceal the truth. The final thing. Even from her.

He watched her in the mirror, trying to figure out his head. Same thing he was doing. – And the shape of it. That was. Still clearly perplexing her in some fashion. Just looking at her. Her tall, athletic frame. Her legs and her small, hard – but definitely there – breasts that – he watched her; only concealing from her the parts of his vision that were virtuous.

She noticed his stare. “I'm trying to figure out what to do with your head. In fact I'm trying to figure out if I do what I'm going to do to your head your head will still look like a normal, relatively, head. That bowl cut is... deader than Old Works –”

“Yeah, but the structure is still –”

“Tell yourself that –” In the drawer, “Scissors!”

“What do you intend to do to me? To my face? That is. And my head.”

“– And your soul? And you soul, brother? I'm going to make you a Cyclops.” Starting on the top of his head. She cut deep into a flock she pinched between two fingers of the other non-scissor hand.

Pry, attentively, watched her gleefulness in performing this weird ritual.

She kept going. And she kept going. Apprehension rising – in direct proportion to the disappearance of the holy bowl on his head – the only Cyclops haircut for maybe half a million years. “I'm going to make you a Cyclops. There's murals. Massive, masculine men, with one eye in the middle of their foreheads – bald, entirely bald... and bearded.”

He couldn't mitigate his first/natural reaction to what she was doing to the thick brown locks on his head – but he did enjoy the way she said the word bearded, “This is the first thing I'm going to do. This is the easy part. Because I'm going to turn you into a real Cyclops. I'm going to turn you into that which your body, your soul, longs to be. Longs to fulfil. Longs to reach, in terms of the self, in terms of the goal towards which you were born, baked into the nature of reality itself. But. Even this. It's all part of his dream; it's all part of his story. Maybe. Maybe all we're doing is reinforcing him/that – but I somehow doubt a real Cyclops – a real Cyclops would do that. First I'm going to make you look like a Cyclops, which as I said,” a large clip of hair fell on the floor beside him, “what a weird head. I really hope I can learn to love this head,” she winked, ran her fingers through his beard again, and kissed him on the cheek, on the beard really, and then pulled on the long singular chin flock on his chin, and then she kissed that too. Both her honey brown eyes on his Eye. He could feel her tugging on the hair on his chin and it was something, that sensation. “I'm crazy for the beard.” what a... she really was a woman he had a lot of appreciation for, in terms of – “But it's this head!”

“Enough on the subject of head, will you? Just do the head.” This was not a joke intentional, nor unintentional.