[ The silky lounge pants come off, and he's sorry to see them go. He's rarely had something so incredibly impractical and entirely luxurious; one can't wear lounge pants to kill Ketheric Thorm, but that makes them all the better. Besides, he's made some delicious memories in (and out of) these pants. Perhaps for the best, though, that he's not thinking about that at the circus. He'd told Iorveth he'd permit almost anything, but his ego would never fully recover from getting frisky at a circus.

As he pulls on his new trousers, he gives Iorveth an appraising glance. It does sting a little to be reminded that he'll never need a mirror, nor a blade with which to cut his hair. Cazador still steals things from him from beyond the grave. Still, it's hardly Iorveth's fault that Astarion allowed himself to be bitten by a vampire instead of bleeding to death in an alley. He wipes the sour look on his face off as quickly as he can before he starts slipping his robe down his arms. ]

I think you look fetching wearing it long. [ A pause, and then a tilt of his head, as if conceding a point he's arguing to himself. ] Mm, but you'd look fetching wearing it short, too.

[ However fetching it might be, though, it's not exactly high fashion, so he adds, ] You know, if you want a more stylish coif, I'd be willing to lend my services.

[ Is he in any way trained to be a barber? No. But is he opinionated enough about hair that he thinks he might as well be? Yes. ]