Characters: Applejack and Photo Finish
Location: Barbershop
~~*~~*~~
Stick A Hat On Me, I’m Done
“No no, zis simply vill not do!”
Sometimes, Applejack had to deal with ponies around Ponyville that thought she, “sounded funny,” that her word choices and accent emphasis were too different from the norm, and thus thought they could hold themselves above her. Applejack thought that was a complete load of manure; the Southernisms that dominated her diction and influenced her enunciation ran in her family. Even if her manners of speech were a choice, she would much rather uphold family tradition than follow the needless hassle of forcing herself to change, in order to fit in.
But for once, for a speckle of a second, Applejack sympathized with those ponies. It only took an accent as nasal and obnoxious as Photo Finish’s to put them on the same page.
“No no no. Anuzzer half-inch off ze sides!”
The snip snip of two pairs of scissors busy at work seemed to hack away at her mane, with wild, unrestrained, busy movement betraying the ludicrous precision the quartet of manestylists were known for. They were top of their field, and they were determined to show it, especially when a well-known fashion photographer like Photo Finish was watching their every move.
Applejack was initially nervous that Photo Finish’s stony gaze, brunt demeanor, and caustic attitude would throw them off their game, but if anything it seemed to steady their resolve. Sweat dripped down their faces as they styled Applejack’s hair to order; her bangs were to be cut so they hung two inches below her eyelashes, and not a centimeter more nor less.
“Zat dress is much too blue! It vill not do!”
“Ms. Finish,” one of the mares replied, “for the fifth time, this is a barbershop! We don’t do dresses!”
Photo Finish turned to the mare, her expression completely unchanged, and the mare’s bravado faltered on the spot.
Somehow, the same unicorn whose magic powered the scissors so fervently cutting her mane also magically yanked Applejack’s blue dress off of her without messing up either, before tossing it into a discarded heap of similarly ill-fated clothes. Applejack just closed her eyes and tried to tune out the background noise.
“How is this, Ms. Finish?” the lone stallion of the four asked, breathing hard. There was a slight tone of animosity in his voice, and Applejack couldn’t blame the poor pony for a second.
Photo Finish leaned over to get a peek at Applejack’s mane. She let out several hmm’s under her breath; all the while, Applejack couldn’t read Photo Finish’s eyes behind her pink sunglasses, and had no idea how she’d react.
“Ze top of her mane is a half-inch too thick!” She rubbed a hoof through Applejack’s mane; evidently the concept of ‘personal space’ was a non-issue in the fashion industry. “Yech!” She recoiled, drawing her hoof back in horror. “Zere iz much too much dirt in zere! Shampoo her mane again!”
“There is no dirt...” one of the mare stylists grumbled.
Scissors went and snipped at the spots Photo Finish pointed out while the others prepared some water, but Applejack could have sworn she heard the four stylists muttering various curses; they sorted through the epithets alphabetically, she noticed, in case they missed any. They had just moved from the blasphemous to the scatological when she also heard an offhoof suggestion of where Photo Finish could stick those scissors -- from the mare that seemed the most submissive and meek of the four, no less -- and Applejack knew right then and there that this would be the lone bright spot of this entire visit.
~~*~~*~~
Red polka dots.
“No.” A shake of the head.
Green and white stripes.
“No.” A shake of the head.
A basic shade of purple.
“Oh, heavens no!” A furious shake of the head. “Awful, awful!”
A hitherto unseen entourage gathered and nodded, as their hooves stamped and ground the sample into the floor, before disappearing into the shadows again. The four stylists looked to one another, each of them deathly afraid to speak. Finally, one of the mares cleared her throat.
“Those are all the colors we have, Ms. Finish.”
“Unacceptable! Do you mean to tell me zat ze second best Ponyville has to offer has only a few ugly shades of fabric?”
“This isn’t-”
“Spare me ze excuses. It seems zat I, Photo Finish, must vork anuzzer miracle.”
~~*~~*~~
Applejack stood in front of the full body mirror the stylists had propped against a wall, trying desperately to see what exactly the big deal was. She had expected -- hoped, to be more accurate -- that Photo Finish would have the decency to look satisfied with the stylists’ work, but Photo Finish nonetheless continued to look her over with the same critical eye and harsh scowl that she figured by now was permanently etched on Photo Finish’s face.
“Ms. Photo Finish, I-” Applejack started, but was silenced by Photo Finish holding up a hoof.
“More powder! Her face is much too tan!” she ordered.
“Ms. Finish, we only do manes here! This is not-”
Another hoof stopped the protests.
“Did you not think zat I, Photo Finish, had not thought of zis beforehoof? My precious modeling studio vas destroyed in a magic duel, and if it vere still standing zis vork vould be done zere! I, Photo Finish, have to make do vith ze second best, and zis is the second best Ponyville has to offer, is it not? Zen act like it! Applejack’s face is much too tan!”
In a second’s time, Applejack was set upon by several brushes powdering her face with Celestia-knows-what, the sighs of disgruntled workers accompanying it. She shut her eyes tight and pursed her lips; it was all she could do to not inhale the stuff. When the particle onslaught ceased, Applejack tried talking again.
“When I said I needed a ‘photo finish,’ I was talkin’ about a race. I didn’t mean you.”
“Vhen Photo Finish hears her name, Photo Finish rises to ze occasion.”
“Do you even know what a ‘photo finish’ is?” Applejack asked, exasperated. “I was neck-in-neck with the stallion racin’ beside me, and the race was so close we could only tell which of us won with a photograph. That’s what I meant by ‘photo finish.’”
Photo Finish’s expression was, still, unreadable as she pondered what Applejack had just told her. She was, for once, so silent that Applejack could’ve sworn she heard the stuck up mare blinking behind her pink shades.
“It seems zat I, Photo Finish, have made a mistake.”
“If you let me speak from the beginnin’, I reckon this could’ve all been avoided. Maybe you oughta let other ponies-”
“Ve go!” Photo Finish called out. As haughty on her way out as she was on her way in, several ponies had silently carried Photo Finish out of the barbershop in the span of a few seconds, leaving a mess of a salon in her wake.
Applejack was ready to leave, too. All of the powder and the eyeliner felt horrible on her face, and her mane, despite the stylists’ best attempts otherwise, just should’ve remained concealed beneath her hat. She preferred it that way, anyway. The four stylists, meanwhile, looked traumatized as each of them gazed upon the wreck of a shop. Various fabrics and powders littered the floor in disorganized piles. This would be at least a long night’s cleaning, if the four of them worked together.
Applejack tossed a random hoofful of bits to the four, not knowing or particularly caring how much there was exactly. “You know, Sweet Apple Acres has the best cider this side of Equestria. I figure I owe y’all a round after all the hard work you did. Our door’s open anytime,” she said.
Each of the four stylists perked up at the offer, but their faces fell when they remembered their working hours were still going, and the shop had to be cleaned as soon as they were able. The stallion looked about ready to cry, and Applejack turned away and walked out of the shop before she could dwell on it too much.
~~*~~*~~
Applejack had never been a pony to adore the spotlight. She liked being noticed, but being the center of attention wasn’t something she was particularly used to. However, Applejack figured she looked like a clown under all the makeup her face was buried in, and between the rough-and-tumble pony’s disastrous cross with fashion and the unchanging grind of everyday life in Ponyville, the ponies of Ponyville paid no heed to her discomfort as wandering eyes invariably found their way to her absurd getup.
On the bright side, if Applejack stayed at the farm for about a month or five, everypony in town would eventually forget all about how ridiculous she thought she looked dolled up. With her head hanging low, she tried to avoid everypony’s eyes, feeling then how her poor friend Fluttershy must’ve felt all the time.
Fortunately, Sweet Apple Acres, right on the outskirts of Ponyville, was right over the horizon. She was almost home. She’d have to deal with her family, of course, but that was much better than dealing with the townsponies.
“Oh, hello Applejack, dear,” rang a familiar voice, right when Applejack thought she was homefree.
Rarity. Great.
Rarity had her typical pleasant smile plastered on her face as she approached Applejack, but it devolved into painfully badly hid giggling, before becoming full blown laughter as her hooves kicked with unrestrained glee.
Applejack glared at Rarity until she managed to calm down, which seemed to take about a year. Friendly though the two typically were to each other, it was moments like these that served to only highlight the differences between them, and the laughter they sometimes had at the other’s expense.
“What, heehee, what happened to you, Applejack?” Rarity said, still struggling to keep her voice even.
Applejack sighed. Curse her predisposition towards honesty.
“Long story short, some stylists spent hours doin’ what they could, and Photo Finish ain’t all that bright. Trust me, there ain’t anythin’ else worth mentionin’. It all feels like just a bad story, and I’m headin’ back to the farm to see how much cider I can drink in one sittin’.”
“Oh,” Rarity added, surprised. “Well, if you stop by the Boutique sometime, heehee,” she offered, magically lifting a pair of scissors, “I’d be delighted to fix your mane! Why, it’s crooked and uneven, even after all their hard work! It’s a travesty!”
Applejack was about to politely refuse Rarity’s offer, but somewhere along the line her patience ran out, and she’d had quite enough of fashion for about three and a half lifetimes.
“Hey Rarity, you know where you can stick those scissors?”