“Blaine, if you don’t let me take you to get your hair cut soon, I’m going to have to cut it off while you sleep,” his mom threatens over breakfast one day.

“Yeah,” his sister agrees, “It’s starting to look like a bonzai tree.”

“You guys are SO funny!” Blaine says, the sarcasm thick in his voice, though he also can’t help but smile, because it’s nice to talk about something inane.

Things are better now that his parents have decided to keep him out of school for the rest of the year. It’s been 6 months since the dance and Blaine is better, but not fully healed necessarily. But soon, he tells himself, soon.

And his mom’s right, it’s time for a hair cut.

Blaine sighs in the salon chair as the scissors start snipping. He needs a new look, he doesn’t want to be Blaine of the wacky curls anymore. He wants to be in control. Maybe looking like he’s pulled together on the outside will make him feel pulled together on the inside.

When his hair cut is over, the chair is spun back to the mirror. And he barely recognizes the face in the mirror, but he likes what his sees.

This is the new Blaine.