[ Astarion reacts to the threat with appropriate horror, eyes widening at the snip, snip of the scissors. Even more horrific: he really does trust Iorveth with a sharp object near his precious hair. Gods, he'd trust him with a sharp object at his throat. What kind of misanthrope is he? One that's stupidly, deliriously in love, apparently, beyond all reason and rationality. ]

You wouldn't.

[ His wide eyes narrow, and he sticks his nose up in the air, haughty. ]

Then you wouldn't have any more soft hair to tangle those fingers of yours in.

[ Who else's hair would he run his fingers through? Lae'zel? Gale? Please. ]

—But, [ he adds, pointing a finger, ] do be careful. This coiffure is two hundred years in the making, you know.

[ It's the only haircut he knows how to style without a mirror, too. ]