Terrifying is accurate, but adorable? Not so much. Vesemir's hack-jobs wouldn't look good on anyone, and certainly not on a couple of snot-nosed little brats. Geralt had-- once again-- been weird for being the boy with long hair, but better that than the boy with an uneven chop. Now that he's older and has actually had to raise a child himself, though, he looks back on his years with Vesemir more kindly; the man had been doing the best he could with troubled children.

"Foster dad," he says. Vesemir isn't his father, not that Geralt would know who the fuck that is, anyway. Hell, he barely even remembers what his own mother looked like. Who knows if she's even alive, or if she remembers him.

Geralt only hums about any preferences Jaskier has for his hair color-- it doesn't really matter, it's not like the brown would ever be coming back, even if Jaskier did like it better. He lets him mess around with the pale locks, examining them closely and quibbling about the exact color. Gray, white, it's basically the same thing when it comes to hair, right? Something that you're only supposed to see on men who are Vesemir's age. It really doesn't matter, though, it's not unattractive enough to stop Geralt from getting the occasional one night stand.

"Soap is soap," he replies, absolutely certain that this response will drive Jaskier up a wall for a number of reasons. One, he's clearly the kind of person that has a hundred different kinds of soap even though just one would do the job, and two, he'd hate how short that statement is. No elaboration, no explanation, no room for arguments. Soap is soap.

He turns his head a little, looking back over his shoulder at the deeply offended musician.

"Are you done yet?"