"That can still be fixed," she hissed, wincing but not complaining at the rough combing. The maids had always used pleasant-smelling oils in her hair to make the process easier, but it was futile to expect Michel to even have such a thing. "I can do it myself," she protested, trying to swipe for the comb, but there was too much of her own hair and soap in her eyes for it to be successful, and eventually she stopped struggling and allowed him to detangle her hair.
"Let myself, yes, because I had so many other options, hadn't I? Maybe if I were a man, people would consider my studies as worthwhile accomplishments and not a frivolous waste of time," and her tone was tinged with bitterness, feeling betrayed by the hollow promises of the revolution. Blinking rapidly, Mabelle's eyes watered a bit to get the soap from her eyes. "So then you want me to do and touch nothing, or do you want me to ignore you?"