#I love Janeway in what clips I see of her but I still refuse to watch Voyager because the sexism makes me want to get violent

[jhelenoftrek]

Imagine a member of the Command team comes to you with a personal request.

Oh, so many ways I could have gone w/ this.  But, then this idea hit me square in the face and I couldn’t resist.  Hope you like, anon!

You’ve got an incredible looking dinner in front of you, thecomputer is playing relaxing music, your boots and jacket have been kickedoff for the night.  You’ve been saving your replicatorrations all week because today, today is your father’s birthday.  And on your father’s birthday there is alwaysa fantastic spread.  Today is not a dayfor eating Neelix’s cooking, no sir. Today is a day for spanakopita and pilaf and a gigantic piece of baklavafor dessert.  It’s hot out of thereplicator and it smells absolutely divine.

You’re just about to sink your fork into the flakylayers of filo when your door chimes.

Maybe, if you ignore it whoever it is will just goaway.  You freeze, waiting.

And it chimes again.

With a frown you shoot one last, despondent look to thedinner which will have to wait.

“Come in,” you say, trying your best to mask annoyance.  Whoeverthis is better be on fire, you think.

Then, in the doorway is the absolute last person you ever expected to see.

“Captain Janeway!” you practically yell in shock.  You leap backward from your chair and barelykeep your food from flying across the table when you knock the plate with yourarm.

“Am I interrupting?” she asks softly.

“No!” you answer quickly. “I mean, no, ma’am.”  You’restraight now, at attention.

“Please, Ensign,” she says with a hand in the air.  “This is your home, not mine.  At ease.”

With a steadying breath you relax a bit and wave her in,extremely grateful that you took the time to clean up this morning.

“I’m interrupting your dinner,” she observes.  “I’ll come back later.”

“No, Captain.  It’sfine, really.  What can I do for you?”

She’s inside all of the way now and she’s glancing brieflyaround your quarters.  You’d be damnedbut she looks uncomfortable.

“I’ve come to ask you a personal favor.”

“A favor?”

“Yes.  I’ve heard thatyou sometimes… well, that is…” and now, you can’t believe it but she actuallydoes look nervous before she lifting her chin to say, “I hear you cut people’shair.  From time to time.”

You feel a broad grin grace your lips.  “I do. About a dozen of the women on the ship come to me, actually.  And a few of the men.”

“Where did you learn?” 

“My father was a barber… is a barber.  Today is his birthday, actually.  He insisted we all learn.”

She nods her approval, apparently your credentials are validenough for what you suspect she’s come for.  “I waswondering, would you cut my hair?”

A quick glance to the fragrant dinner you abandoned on thetable and you’re agreeing to something you never expected.  

Just minutes later she’s seated in your chair, her long,auburn locks damp with the mist from your spray bottle and you’re combing through them.  “How short do you want it?”

“Shoulder length, I think,” she replies.  “It doesn’t matter, really.  I just… I don’t want it long anymore.  Whatever you think would look nice.”

As you thread the strands through your fingers you realizejust how long it really is.  Often tuckedup in a bun or wound around a clip, you wonder if she’s even trimmed it morethan a couple centimeters since being lost out here.   Truth-be-told you’ve always admired thecaptain’s hair.  There is something soeffeminate about it, so… human.  Youbegin to wonder why it is that she’s choosing to cut it now.  

And then, the thought enters your mind that there might bemore to this than just ease of a morning routine.  Words that your father used to mutter ringthrough your head, ‘A woman who cuts herhair is about to change her life.’

“Captain,” you say softly, readying your scissors on yourfingers.  “Is there anything you’d liketo talk about?”

She jerks her head to look at you.  Then she settles back with her eyes focusedonce again out your viewport as you realign your scissors.  “Why do you ask?”

Your first cut is rough, and slices away at a bulk ofhair.  She’s been holding her breath, yourealize, and with the first snip she releases it.  The clump falls to the floor.  

“Sometimes, I’ve found, people make a drastic change intheir hairstyle to reflect a change in their personal life.  Either something has happened to them andthey’re moving on, or they’re trying to start anew.  And it’s none of my business, but if you’dlike to talk, the barber’s chair is a good place to do it.  At least, that’s what my father always said.”

“I appreciate thatoffer, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

The rest of her appointment progresses in silence.  With comb and scissors you work through theyears of growth with ease, but each punctuated slice seems to make her tenseeven more.  

When you’re done with making sure the back is straight, youwalk around to her front and stoop down on the balls of your feet, carefully,you pull both sides that frame her face and even them up.  For a moment, you catch her eyes.  They’re dark. Forlorn.

And you hope it’s not regret that you see, either for the haircut or the event that brought her to have the haircut in the first place.

She continues to sit, still as a statue and studying thestars while you brush off her neck.

“I’m done cutting now,” you inform her.  “Have you ever had short hair?  Would you like me to show you how to styleit?”

She swallows hard.  “It’sbeen a long time, actually.  But I hateto delay your dinner any further.”

“It’s not a problem, I’ll be right back,” you tell her, andyou disappear into your ‘fresher for a moment to get your hand-dryer and a bitof product.

“You can wear it straight down, or curl it under a bit,” yousay returning to where she hasn’t moved even a centimeter.  “Do you have a round brush like this?” youask, showing her yours.

“No…”

“You can have mine,” you say.  “I never use it.”

She takes it from your outstretched hand.  “It’s beautiful,” she remarks, looking at theopalescent handle.  

“My dad gave me that,” you say with a smile.  “Along with the scissors and comb.  He told me never to be without them, that I’dalways be useful if I could cut hair.  Heapparently never thought much for the usefulness of my biology career, but,hey,” you shrug.

“I can’t take this,” she refuses, handing it back to you.

“Yes, you can.  I wantyou to have it, please,” you insist.  “Something new for a new start,” you chance.

She nods quietly, and you’re granted the only sliver of a smileyou’ve seen so far this evening.  “Thankyou.”

A few moments later and your lesson is done, her hairframing her face nicely.  She looksdifferent, and yet…

“Do you like it?” you ask, handing her the mirror one finaltime.

“I think it will take some getting used to, but yes.”  Then she glances to the mess on the floor andyour table, dinner sitting idle.

“I appreciate this, Ensign. I really do.  I just didn’t wantto go to the holographic stylist.”

“I completely get it. That guy’s a jerk,” you say with a smile.  And she finally laughs.  

“Please, order a new dinner on my account,” she offers,rising from her chair.

You shrug, “All I really wanted was the dessert anyway andit’s still good.  Want to split it withme?  You’ve had my father’s haircut, it’sonly fair you try my mother’s pastry.”

At that she breaks into a full grin.  “I’d love some.”