( ...a change. One she approves of. He dallies, struck by the impossible understanding that he faces beauty contorted, knowingly besmirched. That some part, alien and deranged, of Alison Hargreeves thought this an improvement on the natural grace of her carefully manicured curls.

Below, even the woman suffering their combined ministrations settles evenly under Allison's hands, only to squint when she overhears the epiphany. To trust oneself to a stylist who willingly performs this to her hair is —

Gently, Lan Wangji draws both hands shackled to his back, stepping aside. You're on your own, madam. )

It is... ( Coarse. Distressing. A beacon of aesthetic despair. ) New.

( So sayeth his uncle, speak plainly, speak kindly, speak the truth, or hold your tongue. Let it not be said that Lan Wangji is forever the only one among them bereft of a teaspoon of social aptitude. )

You entered the beacon. Reunited with your husband?

( The same she has previously intimated might perhaps wait for her. )