John thought about heading out for the weekend. Maybe even getting out, just grabbing Bobby and heading to the coast, such as it was - to Brighton or somewhere more historic, like Glastonbury or Tintagel. Visit ruins. Have some space. Ruminate on all things once and future.
But he still had students to worry about and his own thesis that was gnawing at him (a world without mutants was scarcely worth thinking about, as it happened). End of term was coming up. And so John instead grabbed his keys, yelled out something about how he'd be back for dinner, and hit the streets.
He hadn't meant to stop by the barbershop, but his wallet had felt heavy in his pocket as he passed it by. And for all his escape, all his running, his greeting-and-defiance, he stopped, thought about it, and turned on his heel to slip into the store with the jingle-jangle of the bell.
A couple of hours later, and a new John stepped out onto the street, clean shaven, bleached and spiked. He wasn't sure entirely why he did it: it made him look younger and leant his mouth a slight natural sneer, as if reverting to way back when. But John also knew that coming to terms with Pyro was something he still had to do.
Finding his bearings again, it was only a short distance to the nondescript building of the Jewish Museum to stand in the queue like someone who plainly did not give a fuck and enter the Menswear exhibition.
Gazing at yet another exhibit of Bowie's gear, John sighed, hands in pockets. The exhibition had actual clothing As Worn By John Lennon and Mick Jagger, so that was more his style.
"So, are you here for Bowie, Lennon or Jagger?" he asked casually to the person standing next to him. You could tell a lot about a person by their choice of musical idol, he'd always thought. And while he shouldn't speak ill of the dead, really - but Bowie was kind of overrated. I mean, Christ, that glam. What was the 70s thinking? It made Pyro's hair look fucking staid.
no subject
But he still had students to worry about and his own thesis that was gnawing at him (a world without mutants was scarcely worth thinking about, as it happened). End of term was coming up. And so John instead grabbed his keys, yelled out something about how he'd be back for dinner, and hit the streets.
He hadn't meant to stop by the barbershop, but his wallet had felt heavy in his pocket as he passed it by. And for all his escape, all his running, his greeting-and-defiance, he stopped, thought about it, and turned on his heel to slip into the store with the jingle-jangle of the bell.
A couple of hours later, and a new John stepped out onto the street, clean shaven, bleached and spiked. He wasn't sure entirely why he did it: it made him look younger and leant his mouth a slight natural sneer, as if reverting to way back when. But John also knew that coming to terms with Pyro was something he still had to do.
Finding his bearings again, it was only a short distance to the nondescript building of the Jewish Museum to stand in the queue like someone who plainly did not give a fuck and enter the Menswear exhibition.
Gazing at yet another exhibit of Bowie's gear, John sighed, hands in pockets. The exhibition had actual clothing As Worn By John Lennon and Mick Jagger, so that was more his style.
"So, are you here for Bowie, Lennon or Jagger?" he asked casually to the person standing next to him. You could tell a lot about a person by their choice of musical idol, he'd always thought. And while he shouldn't speak ill of the dead, really - but Bowie was kind of overrated. I mean, Christ, that glam. What was the 70s thinking? It made Pyro's hair look fucking staid.