shaving

Hagu had a peculiar habit in the morning before class. It was generally peculiar.

She woke up in the stretch between Hanamoto's showering and parfum-ing—the door slid open usually as soon as the hair-dryer roared to life. There stood Hagu with no inclination to ask for an invitation. She pushed his combs, his ointments, his gels to the far side of the sink and pasted her toothbrush. Hanamoto said nothing, but cast her sidelong glances all the while; he figured Hagu was the singular reason he still had a sense of wonder.

By the time he was done shaving, there were about five pieces of toilet paper stuck to his face.

Hagu had been twisting her hair into little pork buns, you see. There had been no attention to spare.