Disclaimer: See, some author and
authorettes might say here, “Though the works of JK Rowling are
used here without permission, I don't want you to do the same to any
original character that comes along.” Pah. You know what? You
can have any of these people you want. In fact, if you catch me on a
good day, I'll make you more.
like cookies, everyone can have some. Only not as tasty.
from this story came from my twisted mind like so: if first and
second years aren't permitted to go to Hogsmeade, how do they get
their haircut and such?
Severus Snape did not make a habit of setting his head on fire. He
made a habit of wishing that others might take the liberty of setting
fire to their own heads, but his, he felt, should be left well enough
It was all Potter's fault. Severus wasn't sure how, yet, but if
experience had taught him anything, it was that he could blame Harry
Potter for anything that went wrong in his life.
It had begun like any other day. He had a medical potion brewing for
Poppy Pomfrey. Not, one should note, at the request of the nurse in
order to administer to the student body, but at the request of the
nurse in order to administer to the nurse. Apparently she had a
problem whose potion exceeded her skill, and made it hard to sit as
At any rate, this potion's fumes tended to be flammable, so Severus
was brewing it by the glow of a ball of light he'd conjured for that
purpose. However, he'd had to leave briefly in order to obtain the
final ingredient, which would make the potion fire-safe and effective
for its purpose. Unfortunately, a house elf chose the moment that he
was out of the room to come in, and noting the lack of light, had
snapped his fingers to light the torches.
The house elf, Herbie, had been all right, though he did spend some
time afterward vaguely wanting to be a dentist, and singing songs to
that effect. But as for Severus...
People told things to their hairstylists that they wouldn't tell to a
priest. No one knows why. Perhaps it's because people are disinclined
to believe that a hairdresser is much of a threat, which only goes to
show that they'd never been to Le Beau Institute of Magical Hair
The horror. The horror.
Since people are so loose-lipped in the barber's chair, Louis du
Lapindamour knew things about Hogwarts that even the house elves
weren't sure about. Among other things, he knew the favorite color of
every last professor in Hogwarts, the favorite foods of many of the
students, and something which was a secret that he guarded with his
life: who in the school wasn't wearing their natural hair color.
He also knew of many secret entrances and exits, but as he never felt
the need to be secretive about leaving or returning, he didn't devote
too much of his attention to that part of his mind.
Louis du Lapindamour was a graduate of Beauxbatons, and then Le Beau
Institute, and can best be described as such: a connoisseur of Muggle
culture, but approximately one decade behind. Thus, he had a mullet.
Most people found it difficult to describe him past the existence of
the mullet, much in the same way that people can't remember what
color the Elephant Man's eyes were.
Louis made a show of straightening up his equipment as Professor
Snape entered his salon by way of one of said secret entrances. He
was wearing smoked glasses and what Louis could only assume to be the
only hat that the professor owned. For no other reason could Louis
imagine anyone electing to wear a hat with a vulture on.
“'ullo, Professor!” said Louis. “'ow may I 'elp you
Professor Snape was silent for a moment as he, from Louis' point of
view, admired the stylist's hair. Then, shaking his head and
blinking, he said, “I need my hair restored to its previous
condition. Not,” he emphasized, “made to resemble
yours in the slightest.”
“You know, you would be surprised 'ow often I get that.”
Louis motioned to the seat and Severus sat in it, taking the hat off
his head slowly, as if afraid that someone was hiding around the
corner with a camera.
“Oh my, oh my, oh my,” said Louis. “There is much
work I must do, no?”
“No. Just fix it. Make it grow then chop off the bits that
don't look necessary.” Professor Snape, Louis felt, was
probably not the most patient person ever to visit his chair.
“It is not that simple. To make the 'air grow naturally from
the 'ead, I must first know from where it grew originally. It may
take as long as an 'our.”
There was a quiet groan from Snape's direction that went completely
unnoticed by the Frenchman.
When Severus had entered the salon, the first thought in his head had
been, “Mullet! Mullet! Look at the mullet!” And since
Severus couldn't quite remember the name of the man, “Mullet”
had remained as a temporary name.
An hour? he thought
mournfully when Mullet had told him. Curse you, Elf.
“So, Professor Snape, 'ow's potion mastering treating you?”
Severus would have growled had he been the type of person inclined to
growl. Instead, he sneered, and felt slightly better for it. “I
did not come here to make small talk. I came to have my scalp
repaired so that I do not look like a fool while I am seeking revenge
on a house elf.” He knew that there was something slightly off
about what he had just said, but chose not to dwell on it.
“'ouse elf, eh? That sounds like an interesting story, I
think,” said Mullet, obviously not listening.
“No. It is not. A house elf whose name I cannot recall set my
head on fire. Thus, I am here.”
“Ah, I was wondering 'ow you
lost your 'air, but I did not want to pry. It may 'ave been male
pattern baldness. Voilà Cheveux!”
The last part was said at Severus' singed 'ead—head, presumably
a charm to show where hair should have been.
“What kind of male pattern baldness results in first degree
“You would be surprised. The 'air is gone, the sunburn starts.
Incidentally, if you don't mind my asking, 'ow is it that your
eyebrows are intact but your 'air is not?”
“I do mind your asking, thank you.” Admittedly,
Severus did not take the best care of his hair. And, on occasion, he
elected to run a comb through his hair and place maybe a bit too much
Sleekeazy's Stay-Put Hair Gel in, but still. He wouldn't have thought
it would burn that easily. He'd have to send them a curse, as soon as
he found an envelope big enough to put it in.
“Fair enough.” He'd started to rub some sort of lotion
into Severus' scalp, and already he could feel the tingle of hair
growing faster than it really should. It vaguely itched. “Now,
you'll have to try to stay still for about fifteen minutes, if you
want it back the way it was. Of course,” he mused, “I
could give your 'air a more contemporary look.”
Mullet, mullet, mullet,
Severus' brain warned. “No. You will restore my hair and I will
leave. Any attempts to change my hairstyle will result in violence,
bloodshed, and property damage.”
“Okay, okay, just an idea,” said Mullet. “So what
was this potion that so torched your scalp?”
“Some feminine thing for a member of the staff who values her
“Ah, Madam Pomfrey, yes. She mentioned that she would probably
'ave to ask for some 'elp.”
Severus didn't reply, but reached up and tentatively touched his
hair. It was at the awkward point between short and long where
gravity only took hold when it would be preferred if it didn't.
Probably a few more minutes then. Perhaps the hairstylist would
remain silent indefinitely.
“You know, black is such a drab color. I could make your 'air
any other color you like, and it would look so natural that no one
would remember that it wasn't.”
“My hair will remain black. It will return to being long and
fairly obedient. And you will stop suggesting how it should be
“All done!” said Mullet, still not listening. “Red,
Severus placed five Galleons on his chair and left, abandoning his
vulture hat. “Is that a no?” Mullet called after him.
Louis knew more about most people than was healthy for him. This was
why the First Law of Le Beau Institute of Magical Hair Design was
“The trust of the barber is sacred, and the tongue of the
trusted must be well controlled.” The second was, “Don't
skimp on the shampoo.”
But Louis respected the Law, and one day, in the far future, when
offered a chance to write a book based on the knowledge he
accumulated in his years at Hogwarts, he would decline.
Which was just as well, because in the universe in which Louis had
decided to publish such a book, he'd met with a mysterious and
violent end. A bookend, as a matter of fact. It had been charmed to
attack him in retribution for revealing Professor Flitwick's natural
It was Louis' own fault, though. Everyone knew that Filius had a short temper.