Giorno’s hair is a subject better left unquestioned. In fact, Narancia would love to have never brought it up. But Giorno’s hair was soft and gold and pretty like a woman’s, and Narancia could hardly be blamed for the curiosity. He’s suffered for it, though, that much is sure. He’s learned new dimensions of pain.
He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t sneak around trying to figure out how Giorno’s hair stays in its triple-doughnut configuration. It just never occurred to him that the knowledge could come at such a terrible price. So, last night, he made a mistake.
He won’t do it again, that’s for sure. He wishes he hadn’t done it at all. He’s had his young, innocent spirit damaged by it. His biggest regret is that he can’t undo it.
It had been going so well before it suddenly went so wrong. Giorno had smiled, had started to uncurl a single coil of his hair, and Narancia’s eager expression had dropped to one of pure horror. He’d dropped to the floor in anguish, wondering what he had done to earn a curse like this.
“You asked,” Giorno had said, winding his hair back up into a perfect circle. Yes, Narancia had asked, and now he was paying the price. It had come on so fast. He wasn’t ready for it. He may never be ready to face the knowledge that he now has.
Today, Narancia hopes it’s a dream, something that he will eventually forget. He’s going to have to adjust his whole mindset concerning Giorno. He’s going to have to keep his curiosity in check. Hadn’t the Fugo incident been bad enough? Well, now Narancia’s learned his lesson.
If only he could figure out the purpose of Abbacchio’s purple hairpiece.