Jonathan Sims

"Could start a hat-based cold war with Harriet," John muses, grinning as something hat-adjacent takes shape. The suds aren't terribly cooperative, but it's not as if the end result really matters. "She may have you beat in terms of sheer numbers, but you're already familiar with what she's working with, and you'd have the element of surprise. I think you could give her a run for her money."

He leans back to admire his handiwork, more than a little tempted to run and get his phone so he can take a picture, if Martin would allow it. But he also doesn't want to step away, even for such a worthy cause, so he just lingers long enough to cement the image in his mind before reaching back up to scrub the wonky little soap sculpture back into Martin's hair. Then he resettles his hand at the back of Martin's head, and dips the cup back into the bath to fill it.

"Right, let's get you sorted," he murmurs, waiting for Martin to tip his head back before he starts to rinse the shampoo away.