Q:I can't even you're hella cute~
much thank you
Sometimes her friends really pissed her off. To the point of an enraged-teenage-volcanic eruption that she reserved especially for DWMA’s missions and her Papa.
About a week ago on a particularly drawn-out keishin hunt, she got more impatient to slice the damn monster’s head off and more careless about prioritizing her safety as the days suffered on. Soon enough, just as she got Soul’s ravenous blade hooked to the crook of it’s elongated neck, the keishin gave Maka a farewell gift as well. Tearing her left pigtail off with its sharpened jaws and swallowing it whole, her hair never even had the chance to make its way to the stomach by the time Soul quickly removed the keishin’s head from its body.
Of course, Soul’s mother-hen instincts kicked in before he got the chance to transform out of his scythe form, a flood of worry and anxiety being sent through their slight post-battle resonance. After he affirmed that yes, her ear and scalp and head for Death’s sake was still there, and no, she would not let herself get reckless for the sake of making a quick kill again, they made their way to their motel with lead in their limbs and some relief in their hearts. All up until the point where Maka caught a good look of herself in the bathroom mirror and realized “hey, half of my fucking hair is missing!”, that is.
But this is Maka Albarn we’re talking about here, and the issue was quickly resolved that same night with a pair of scissors and a trashcan full of the other ash blonde pigtail. At least then she didn’t look like the result of a bad punk-techno DJ phase. It was however taken albeit harshly when they arrived back home.
All she had heard once she and Soul returned to Death City was “Oh Maka, that’s just awful!” and “Poor thing, now she’s stuck looking like that." What the hell was she supposed to make of those? Soul was the only one who never pitied her new haircut, and actually meant it when he said she suited the pixie cut.
In all honesty, it wasn’t anything nightmarish resembling. It actually was very similar to Kim’s hair, except without the hours of moussing and trimming and other means of effort put into. Maka called her style plain, but Soul made it a point he favored her simple look.
Not like it made a difference, anyways. Maka was utterly content with her appearance, from the way she dressed to the absence of her long hair. If anything she sort of preferred her low-maintenance hair length, seeing as how she saved extra money on buying less shampoo and used less water when washing it. It was, besides from her partner, everyone else who had a problem with it.
Perhaps Liz thought it was harder for Maka to connect with her feminine side when she more resembled her genderswap in the Book of Eibon; that looking boy-ish somehow became a sudden emotional cripple for Maka, and offers for shopping for a “non-librarian themed” wardrobe never ceased being brought forth. Or Tsubaki, the ever loving caretaker somehow drowning her in oolong tea, jasmine tea, orange blossom tea, any sort of tea really to help “cheer her up”. She probably needed some cheering up too, after days and days of Black*Star obliviously wearing her tolerance away with his non-stop dyke jokes.
Maka has no problem with knocking a few idiots around, to disperse the junk they have rotting in the dusty attics of their minds, even if said idiots were her friends. Her well-intentioned, unknowing, idiot friends. Idiots, lord Death they were idiots. Yet, she holds back.
In time, she knows they’ll let go of the subject and find some other thing to grab their attention, since it’s only been a week since the passing of her twin tails, may they rest in pieces. Unlike her previous mission, she’ll wait out their pity parties with a patience worth admiring. She’ll throw out her hair ties and four useless de-tangling brushes, and use her extra shampoo money to buy that wok in the Bed Bath & Beyond catalog she had been eyeing. Next morning, she’ll brush her newly fluffy hair and put on a sweater vest with her khaki capris and damn it all she’ll love it. She’ll love every second of being a girl who is comfortable with her image, with her soul, with her ever accepting and understanding partner.
But at times, she will look into the mirror passingly and imagine if she were more careful that day, if her head was but two inches further away from the keishin’s gaping jaws, what exactly would she feel if she saw her long hair still there? Draped over each shoulder, tied neatly by white elastic, and not lying in some landfill, or lodged in the throat of a monster?
It is this uncharacteristic wondering, this uncertainty that makes Maka truly frustrated.