Cindy: “Excuse me?”
Hairbrush Santa: “What the-! Who are you?”
Cindy: “Oh, just a traveler of no particular importance, and not anybody you need to trouble your friends with. You appear to have set up an elaborate portable hairstyling station in the middle of the woods, and I just had to ask.”
Hairbrush Santa: “Yep. I set it up every night when we make camp, hoping that Femme de Pain will let me brush her beautiful hair, but she always threatens me with that loaf of bread of hers.”
Cindy: “That’s your psycho deal? You like to brush hair?”
Hairbrush Santa: “Like it? I live for it! The feel of the brush running through a long silken mane! Ho ho ho!”
Cindy: “That’s a little strange, but it doesn’t seem like that would mark you as a full-on psycho.”
Hairbrush Santa: “Well, I did murder a few ladies with particularly lovely hair, ‘coz they refused to let me brush it. Wasn’t fair for them to be so selfish.”
Cindy: “Oh.”
Hairbrush Santa: “Oh my. You know, now that my eyes are adjusting to the moonlight… you’ve got quite a beautiful head of hair yourself. Ho ho ho!”
Cindy: “Yeah, well, I do try to take care of it. Umm… look, you’re not being euphemistic or anything, right? You are speaking literally about liking to brush hair? And with a regular brush, not a knife or your dick or anything?”
Hairbrush Santa: “Hey! Lady, I take offense to that! Hairbrushing is a serious passion for me, and I wouldn’t sully it with that sort of filth!”
Cindy: “Sorry, sorry, I just had to make sure. Listen, I’ll tell you what: if you tell me everything you know about this mob of people you’re travelling with, and where you’re going and what your plan is, and promise not to tell them about me, I’ll let you brush my hair.”
Hairbrush Santa: “…Huh. That’s mighty tempting, miss, but you’re asking an awful lot.”
Cindy: “I’ll let you french braid my hair.”
Hairbrush Santa: “Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho!”
