No one—no one—knows about his sacred hair routine.
Every day, without fail, Renji combs his mane exactly 107 times, oils it with a custom blend imported from the Living World, washes it on a strict schedule, and applies only the finest masks and treatments. He calculates humidity levels. He times his wash cycles with planetary alignments (not because it makes a difference, but because true dedication means going the extra mile).
This secret must never be exposed. His reputation hinges on maintaining the illusion that he is effortlessly cool.
And normally, his hair is a flawless cascade of crimson perfection, so lustrous and radiant it could have its own fan club. He ties it back, not for practicality, but because overexposure to wind friction could weaken the strands. If hair care were a battlefield, he would be its greatest warrior.
But now he stands before the mirror, staring into the abyss.
His hair is… dull. Frizzy.
The morning sunlight cuts across the room, illuminating the crime scene upon his head. His breath shallows. His hands tremble as they ghost over the lifeless straw where his glorious mane once was.
Desperately he lunges for his hidden cabinet, yanking open the doors to his sanctuary. His eyes dart wildly across the shelves—tubes, serums, elixirs of life—his holy relics.
And then, there, he sees it. The infiltraitor.
Nestled among his precious shampoos, sitting there with the smugness of a villain who knows they have won.
A single can of shaving foam.
The world tilts, his vision swims.
There is no coming back from this. His legacy, his pride, his future shampoo sponsorship deals...
He drags a hand through the ruins atop his head, trying to calculate the recovery process when—
A single, unmistakable cough.
His soul leaves his body, eyes with dread flicker to the mirror.
Behind him stands his Taichō.
Byakuya Kuchiki. Witness to his ultimate disgrace.
Renji cannot breathe, cannot move. He has been seen in his most vulnerable, weakest state.
Byakuya’s expression remains unreadable, his gaze shifting—just slightly—to Renji’s hair.
And there it is. That infinitesimal flicker of emotion. Not disgust, not pity.
Renji braces himself. He is ready to swear eternal loyalty right here, right now, even as a frizz-ridden failure—
But he stills as Byakuya, without a word, sets something down on the dresser.
A single, elegant jar. Then, with the unshakable dignity of a true noble, he turns and walks away.
Renji, still too paralyzed with grief to function, finally looks down.
Hairy Fairy All Repair Mask.
He does not know how to process this, but his chest tightens.
Byakuya... his Taichō... the greatest man he has ever known... had foreseen his suffering.
The protector of the weak and the frizzy.
Renji clutches the jar to his chest, eyes burning with emotion.
He will not let this kindness go to waste.
He will not fail his Taichō, ever.
Byakuya Kuchiki—graceful, untouchable, all-knowing—has reminded him that even in the darkest moments, even in the depths of shaving-foam-induced ruin, there is hope.
Hairy Fairy All Repair Mask
