Still focused forward, Johanna lets herself imagine Newt with hair as long as a girl's. Hair that long, that's tame, compared to some of the hairdos the Capitol set have favored. But Newt isn't a Capitolite, and wouldn't be, if he was from Panem. And that means that he's free game to laugh at.

So Johanna does, and it lacks some of its usual mockery. Just good old-fashioned amusement, nothing else. What, she would defend, if anyone challenged her for laughing, it's funny, because it is.

"Too bad, I bet you were really pretty." She's actually doing a pretty good job of holding still, for all her keen awareness of the knife just behind her. "And I don't ever cut my hair, actually. Not on my own. I've got a whole team to take care of it for me. Or I did," she adds, with dark amusement. A tickle creeps over her skin as a clump of hair falls under the knife; she bites, hard, on nothing, turns it into a grin. "If you tried cutting your own hair, they'd just put a wig on you. I love this freedom."

Not.