He hadn't looked in the mirror since the day he was supposed to pick her up. Unfortunately, on this morning... or afternoon, more likely... he had spilled a weeks-old glass of water onto it in a struggle to get the dregs of his toothpaste out of the tube. It was close battle, but he decided the nausea of letting the water sit there and attract a new biome of microcultures would outweigh the repulsion of getting a glimpse of himself.
Of course, he had felt his hair crawling down his neck day by day, but that didn't mean he was ready to see it. His sanctuary devoid of all evidence of the passage of time had been so easily betrayed by this rat's nest. He crouched down to rifle through a whicker chest by the door, in hopes of finding a hairbrush.
He'd tied it for her often enough that he didn't need to look in the mirror to get it around his own hair. And yet, his curiosity won out.
With his hair out of his face, he looked kind of like his old self, if you blurred your eyes.
Finding a hairbrush could wait. His shaving kit was right where he left it.