She lowered her head until her cheek pressed against his own.
"Because it feels like bristles," she whispered.
She reddened fiercely when he remained silent, and the scissors snipped more rapidly between her fingers.
"I'm going to prospect the big swamp along the edge of the Barrens this summer," he explained soon, laughing to relieve the tension. "A beard will protect me from the black flies."
"You can grow another."
She took the apron from about his shoulders, and held it so that he could see the result of her work. He looked up, smiling.
"Thank you, Mélisse. Do you remember when you last cut my hair?"
"Yes—it was over on the mountain. We had taken the scissors along for cutting bakneesh, and you looked so like a wild Indian that I made you sit on a rock and let me trim it."
"And you cut my ear," he reminded.
"For which you made me pay," she retorted quickly, almost under her breath.