Bear with me for a sec but imagine Hojo—in his pride over Sephiroth’s appearance—having a million petty rules. Like no tattoos, no piercings unless they’re for Shinra publicity (and to be healed immediately after), no makeup, nothing that would mar his perfect specimen. But he’s particular about the hair.
So many specifications: the exact length (never past the jawline), the precise angle of the cut (nothing that could obscure his face in photos), and always tsking at how unruly it is when Sephiroth’s a child, how it grows too fast, how silver hair shows every imperfection. Sephiroth spends one too many sessions sitting rigid in an uncomfortable chair while Hojo barks orders at some terrified lab assistant who knows one wrong snip could end their career.
And Hojo complains, like a constant background radiation of criticism, about how absurdly fast it grows— equal parts awe at the accelerated cell regeneration, and annoyance that his specimen requires such frequent maintenance. Sephiroth learns the rules: keep it short, keep it neat. So when he’s away from HQ for extended missions, he trims it himself because Gaia forbid it reaches past a certain length. He knows if he comes back with it even an inch too long, Hojo will cut it shorter out of spite.
So when Sephiroth’s age blooms past late spring, when the world around him sours and his awareness of Hojo’s restrictions crystallizes into resentment—when he’s away on a long mission at seventeen, eighteen, somewhere in that territory of late adolescence—he just doesn’t cut it.
Refuses to, actually. He decides to keep it long and lets it grow past his collar, past his shoulders, preparing himself to raise hand and sword if that old bastard tries to cut it by force. Genesis loves it, praises the rebellion. Meanwhile Angeal is wary and already worried.
And then Sephiroth returns to HQ and goes straight to R&D (protocol demands a post mission medical and Hojo is his physician), and crosses the threshold into Hojo’s personal office. Sephiroth’s expression is already solemn and stony, fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides. His hair hangs past his shoulders, and he stands there waiting for the scolding, prepared for the fight.
Hojo looks up from his paperwork. And he simply blinks, but says nothing. The lack of dialogue stretches into uncomfortable silence, neither of them speaking. Then Hojo stands, walks to his desk drawer, retrieves something—a hair elastic, Sephiroth realizes with confusion—and gestures to the exam table.
“Getting rebellious now?” Hojo’s tone has no sneer, no venom, only a dry amusement that’s somehow worse. “Using your hair as an outlet for your anger? Or is it indignation?”
Sephiroth sits on the cold metal, every muscle tense as he feels Hojo move behind him, gathering the hair at the nape of his neck. The touch isn’t rough, Hojo’s hands are never rough when handling him, too aware of the specimen’s value—but it’s not clinical this time. It’s assessing, almost thoughtful.
“Can’t say I’m unfamiliar with the notion.” Sephiroth feels those bony fingers brush through the longer strands, and he winces, waiting for scissors, waiting for scolding, waiting for anything but what comes next. “After all—I tried to pull this very same stunt when I was your age.”
Sephiroth nearly jumps out of his skin. In all his years, there has never been any mention of Hojo’s childhood. Sephiroth has never even considered he had one, much less pictured the scientist as a boy. He keeps quiet, afraid to break whatever spell has loosened Hojo’s tongue.
“My father believed short hair was a sign of discipline and respectability.” Hojo’s voice is detached, as if discussing someone else’s data. “Long hair was for the loose, the wayward. Already not a good look for the son of a drunken fisherman who cared more for books than properly gutting the day’s catch.”
Sephiroth sits absolutely still as he feels Hojo gather the hair, feels the elastic snap into place. He’s tying it, acknowledging it, allowing it to exist.
“So in a fit of rebellion one summer, I let it grow. Kept it tied tight so he wouldn’t notice for months. Until one day he caught me with it down, past my shoulders...”
Silence. Hojo doesn’t continue. He simply runs his fingers through the silver strands one more time, as if daring Sephiroth to ask. And Sephiroth—caught between fear and a curiosity that overrides all sense of self preservation—has to know.
“And then with the same hand he used to slap me, he forced my head to the ground, grabbed his fish-gutting knife, and chopped it off like he was beheading mackerel.”
Sephiroth has no response to that. Hojo finishes tying the hair, and Sephiroth feels those bony hands settle on his shoulders like a burial shroud. When Hojo speaks again, his voice has thickened into the cruel sneer Sephiroth knows far too well.
“So if you think,” Sephiroth can practically see the vicious smile even though Hojo is still behind him, “that in this little act, you’re somehow rebelling against me—know that you have accomplished nothing but wasting your time and granting yourself a daily maintenance task. You are not to keep this unbrushed. Understood?”
Sephiroth can hardly believe it. He twists to look back, and Hojo is peering at him with those dark, unreadable cold eyes, staring into him as if excavating his soul. Sephiroth, wide-eyed and shocked, can only nod quickly and mutter “Yes, Professor.”
“Good.” Hojo scoffs, then turns his back in clear dismissal. “You may go. I’ll examine you tomorrow.”
Sephiroth slides off the metal table and walks toward the door, but not before looking back one last time and seeing Professor Hojo—perveyor of all his torment, of every rule and restriction—and noticing for the first time, in a way that suddenly feels significant, that he too has long hair. Not neat and not particularly well maintained, but long. As if Hojo never bothered to cut it again after that summer.
Sephiroth says nothing. He leaves, one hand touching the hair tie and the pulled-back strands the professor arranged with unexpected gentleness, walking out with long hair and permission to keep it and more questions than he came in with.
2087
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