"You're gonna have to stop calling me your lady, Podrick. Or I'll be thoroughly pissed off if I get the chop only to have you blow my cover."

She spun the knife in her palm, offering the boy only one small mournful glance. Buffy could at least control the length, and she would not go so short as Tyrion suggested. After all, one of the sellswords just beyond their door had a head of moppish hair which would make an NHL player proud. So she gathered one side of her hair in her fist and pulled its gentle curves into a taught and straight line. She knew it wouldn't hurt, but she imagined it would.

She heard the slice and snap of every strand on the right side of her head. And she made a point to stare at Tyrion through the entire stroke.