Haircut
by
Teegar Taylor
Chekov felt his stomach tighten in apprehension at the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Stupid," he berated himself silently. "I'm not doing anything wrong."
Despite this, the ensign found himself running through a quick mental inventory of his recent actions. Sometimes the wrong things he did were very subtle. At times, it took an expert to find them.
The expert came to stand just behind his shoulder. The ensign allowed himself only a quick glance to his left to confirm his identity. He then focused his concentration on making his fingers move over the keyboard in front of him in a calm, orderly fashion. Looking guilty always brought on disaster. The man behind him seemed to be able to smell guilt the way some wild animals were supposed to be able to smell fear in easy prey.
After monitoring him for several silent moments, his tormentor put his hand on the back of Chekov's head.
"You're letting your hair get too long again," he said when the ensign looked up questioningly. "You should get it cut by the end of the week."
"Yes, sir." Chekov repressed the urge to sigh. This was a new low. He'd managed to something wrong by doing nothing at all this time.
His tormentor continued to measure offending strands between his fingers. "Does it grow fast?" he asked, idly, "Or do you just like it long?"
Chekov was speechless for a moment, surprized by the informal and rather personal tone of the question while this person he did not like stood running his fingers through his hair as casually as someone might do to their dog... or lover.
"It grows fast," he answered, leaning forward and out of the man's grasp under the cover of turning back to his work.
The man reached out and taking the ensign by the chin turned his face back toward him. "Regulation length by the end of the week," he warned firmly. "And I don't expect to have to remind you again. Is that understood?"
As soon as Chekov obediently answered, "Yes, sir," he was allowed to return to his assignment.
