Ouch. Even with the correction, that stings.  Still, she walks Harrow into her kitchen and helps her settle in a chair, leaves the towels and first aid kit on the table.  "Scissors in the drawer," she says, and she's on her way back to the bathroom to grab the electric clippers she uses to keep the back and sides of her hair in order, a fresh disposable razor too, and then she hears what Harrow says next.  "What.  The actual.  Fuck." The last time she'd seen Ianthe Tridentarius, she'd been bleeding from the stump of her severed arm, flailing around like a half trodden roach.  Insanity flaring in her muddy, watercolor eyes.  "Why?"