Kratos is a seasoned warrior who is centuries old and has been through any number of bizarre incidences—he has been at the summoning of every Great Spirit, has seen myths and legends become real flesh, has even helped create new history and a new religion, has become an angel, seen a world split in two and then brought whole again… .
And yet, and yet he still finds himself capable of surprise and mute, dumb shock.
“Um…yes?” His tone sounded uncharacteristically like a question.
Clearing his throat, he regains his composure immediately. “Yes, I have, but I have not been in this city long and have yet to acquire a hairbrush.” He’s been trying to find where to get one, not to mention he also still needs money to acquire one. Perhaps, it’s time to just change into the clothes he’s been provided by the city, no matter how he may not trust anything he’s given, and no matter how comfortable he’s grown with his own clothing.
(Maybe since Yggdrasil and Lloyd have worse senses of fashion than he does, Kratos doesn’t actually realize how odd his clothing is. He’s usually oblivious to the stares, he’s long grown used to stares of all kinds before ever donning this garb, and is now a master at ignoring and dismissing them.)
He sighs. “Honestly though, hairbrushes and combs don’t really matter… .” He runs a hand through his hair with the air of the long suffering. “It just does what it wants anyway.”
Kratos hopes the woman leaves it at that. He’s over 4,000 years old. There is literally nothing she can suggest that he has not tried, he is completely certain. He’s given up years ago. True, he’s given up on a lot of things, that he ended up being wrong to give up on; but his hair has defeated even those people who showed him the errors of those surrenders.
“Uh-huh.” If Kratos’ tone sounded uncharacteristically like a question, Tsubasa’s sounded entirely, 100% characteristically doubtful. Who even answers a simple question like that?! It almost sounded like he didn’t even know what a hairbrush was, the savage. And by the looks of that unkempt mane obscuring two thirds of his face, that probably wasn’t too far off.
I haven’t been here long, I didn’t have time to get a hairbrush, it’s not my fault I look like thirteen rats live in my hair, it just does this! ...Okay. You have to give the brunette a little credit for only mocking him mentally, rather than out loud and to his face. His final words -- the assertion that, for whatever reason, the lifeless strands of keratin attached to his scalp were completely and utterly incorrigible due to some imagined sentience -- were brushed off with a dismissive huff as Tsubasa began circling him, eyeing every part of his outfit critically.
...Maybe this was-- no.
Well, this piece isn’t so-- yikes.
Maybe the sleeves are oka-- ...mm, no, definitely not.
No, the entire outfit is even more horrendous up close. No sense of fashion. No aesthetically pleasing qualities -- aside from the color, though that hardly counted when he’d picked a shade that clashed so terribly with the tumbleweed he passed off as hair. No apparent functional aspects -- in fact, most of it looked completely impractical for... anything.
There’s really only one conclusion to be drawn from this.
“You’re right. It doesn’t matter, because there’s nothing salvageable about this trainwreck at all,” Tsubasa scoffs, blouse wrinkling under folded arms. “I should’ve known better than to ask a clown about his appearance. Or does your circus call you jesters? Or is that just for the ones that wear those stupid hats with the bells? I guess if you wore one of those you’d at least be able to see out of both eyes.”