With a sigh, dismissive and irritated, Johanna heaves herself to her feet and turns around to face Eponine. They're separated by the bench between them, but they're still fairly close, and Eponine is still holding her knife--but Johanna doesn't twitch away, and she doesn't demand the return of the knife. Not yet.

Instead, she pushes her fingers briskly through the trimmed length, fluffing it out for a second. Against all odds, it sort of suits her face, in a hacked-off kind of way. Maybe when it grows out a little, it'll look more purposeful.

"Well?"