"Hey! It takes long negotiations between my comb and my hair! It's not my fault they don't understand each other!" He called back from his bathroom. The time elapse between Issac starting to attempt to brush his hair and finishing would be a hilarious series of photos should someone ever try to photograph it.
There were times when he had friends in his trailer that their thoughts and words overlapped one another providing issue for him figuring out what they were saying. The Mentalist did the best he could figuring out what was being said aloud and what portions were in their head, but most of the time they all sounded the same to him, especially when they sat close-by.
"Poetry inspiring your art?" He chuckled, walking out of the small bathroom with the comb stuck in his hair. Pouting his lips, he gave Marlow a playfully pitiful look. "Can I get some help, please?" Kneeling down in front of the bed, he laid his chin on his hands and stared up at her.
"Of course! I was eighteen the last time it happened since I was two years too late for the time before that. That was kind of disappointing, but you know... I wouldn't have been allowed to play anyway since I would have been eight. And I'm not sure my mother would have appreciated it... they were Seer witches kind of like Cat if she was a witch... which she isn't but there's a lot of blurred lines between gifted humans and witches, yeah?" He babbled, his mind wanderign as it was apt to do.