John smiles softly, nothing but affection in his eyes as he reaches out to take a strand of loose blonde hair. He's careful with it, letting the silken strands caress his fingers.

"I love your hair. I knew you'd be a blonde. Well, alright, at first I thought that wig ws your hair and you'd died it like a lunatic," he said, chuckling softly. "But now...now I know. I like your wigs. Like plumage, isn't it? You're quite like a bird, I think. Something bright and beautiful from the tropics. Exotic. Yes, that's the word I want. Exotic," he babbles. He's no poet but his words are heartfelt.