I don't ship Sherlock x Molly so I'm very sorry that is why this is so short
I can't be seen looking like this!" He exclaimed from the bathroom, pulling at his unruly curls with his fists. "Like what? You look fine." Her husband's head popped into the hallway, his brow creased, mouth tense. Damp ringlets hung long. Two fistful sections conspicuously sprang outward from his scalp.
Molly turned from the kitchen and attempted to stifle a giggle. "Well, no, but if you would use the hair drier."
"Cut it. It's too long. Even dry, I look like the Shaggy Consulting Detective." She set the tea on the table as he came out, scissors in hand. "No!" She stepped back. "I couldn't possibly. Sherlock, why don't you just go see your hairdresser?"
Sherlock pursed his lips and averted his gaze to the tea. "That's idiotic. You learned to cut hair when you were in school. It'll be fine. You cut your own hair."
"I'd never forgive myself if I butchered your curls." Molly took the scissors from his hand and placed them on the table. "My hair is just straight, and I always wear it in a ponytail. It doesn't matter if I chop it. Yours-" she reached out to fondle those beloved tendrils. "You wouldn't thank me to turn you into Frankenstein's monster."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed. "My hair is not any more special than yours." He stepped forward, closing the space, and reached behind her to grab her hair at the base of her head, pulling down the hair band, freeing her long tresses.
"Now who's being thick? Yours is signature." Molly fingered his now drying hair. The ringlets springing to life over his ears. "Everyone knows it. No one would notice if I accidentally took a chunk out of my own head."
"I would notice!" He caught a section of her hair and brought it around so that she could see it. "Look!" He shook it in her face, tickling her nose. "Don't you see the toffee coloring? If either of us has the better hair, it is you."
Molly placed her hands on either side of his head. "Well, yours is softer." In one motion she pushed the full-bodied whorls into his face, rubbing them against his temples and cheeks.
His lips parted in a tense smile, teeth on edge, eyes narrowed. He crouched, bringing their faces to an even level. Long, slender digits ran through the strands on her scalp. "But yours is silk," he growled.
She clenched her fists in his coif, tugging gently as she pulled outward from his head. "And you have more body," she snarled. There was silence save their staggered breathing.
They stared into each other's eyes for a moment before he gathered her small frame into his arms, pressing their lengths together and huskily expressing in her ear, "Yes, I do."