Kaveh waits until Al-Haitham finishes the current song and takes his earpieces off. Kaveh closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and begins with, “Don’t laugh.”

“How can I promise that? If you tell me something humorous you can’t blame me for the response you get. That would be unfair of you. State it in a way that’s not funny and I won’t laugh.”

A muscle in Kaveh’s cheek jumps. Kaveh slaps a hand to it.

“I’m going to ask you to do something,” Kaveh continues, pressing down on his cheek, eyes still closed. “And it won’t make sense to you. It barely makes sense to me. It will be illogical. But I want you to promise me you won’t laugh. You can judge me and you can criticize me — ideally afterwards and all at once to get it out of your system, or privately in your head — but you cannot laugh at me.”

“That I can promise,” Al-Haitham decides.

Kaveh opens his eyes. He licks his lips. He takes another steadying breath. And then Kaveh says, “I want you to cut my hair.”