Breaking entirely from concern about how the habit might be perceived, Albus seized at an hold habit that never failed to ground him: he swept his hair over one shoulder and began separating it into three distinct and even portions.
"The trouble of opening a box is that one never really can be sure of what's inside it," Albus began, trying to find a way to navigate his own thoughts, to work himself back to being able to say what he meant, in one way or another. Long fingers began quickly plaiting his hair into a well-practiced braid, as if he could so simply knit himself back together. "The experience is not guaranteed to be pleasant."
Ah, but then there was that curiosity. "But therein, I suppose, lies the appeal of the unknown." Braid completed, his composure reforming a little -- at least on the surface, because his mind still swayed with the torrent of his thoughts and that resent and that hurt -- Albus took a steadying breath. "It is not unbearable, but if you wish to know what's inside your own, you may want to brace yourself for something a bit harrowing."