Jesus Christ, Zecora, just drag him by the whole scalp, why don't you.

Any kind of temper from Zecora is a surprising thing, and the sudden sharp reminder has him jerk back a little with a couple of befuddled blinks. Soon enough, wings drooping awkwardly, he glances away as he's told off. His hand raises, wanting to rub at his shoulder and forgetting that, with the tailors of the Prince's, there's no empty sleeve to fiddle with. When she's finally done, there's no immediate answer, just some uncomfortable shifting.

"Bloody hell," he finally mutters, still avoiding eye contact, "I ain't a child ya gotta tell off, Zecora. S'just- too much like Celebration. Every inch of it."