But the true tragedy, the violation of his human rights, was happening to his hair.
Seraphina had completely dismantled his elegant, low ponytail.
She had spent the last forty-five minutes sectioning his brilliant blonde hair, sing a dizzying array of neon-pink, lime-green, and bright-orange silk ribbons to tie his flowing locks into a series of tiny, gravity-defying pigtails.
"My hair," Alistair whimpered softly, a single, tragic tear escaping his right eye, carefully avoiding the holographic unicorn. "My hair is a symbol of my academic devotion. It has never known the indignity of a scrunchie. I am losing my dignity. I look like a flamboyant porcupine!"
Behind his mahogany desk, sitting perfectly straight in his high-backed leather chair, Duke Kaelus von Nacht was holding a highly classified military dispatch.
