[Karkat's expression had grown increasingly dubious throughout Dave's performance, wrought as it was with references to shit he hasn't the faintest inkling about, but the look he sends his moirail for suggesting that he might need something to keep his hair under control could strip paint off the wall. It was bad enough returning to his body and having to deal with the sheer grubfuckery that was what Dirk had done to it, and yes, he's still sore about that weeks later, what of it? Fucking Dirk.]

I guess around my arm? If it doesn't slide around or whatever the fuck, I'd have to keep adjusting it.

[Probably? The alternative, after all, is tying it on so tightly that it cuts off his damn circulation, which would be dumb as hell. Holy fuck, this is why he doesn't accessorize; it's more trouble than it's worth.

Speaking of, Karkat takes a moment to pat awkwardly at his own head, then heave an exasperated sigh.]

And the fucking crown fell off. Do I have to put that back on?

[How very strange that he'd forgotten about it until now, ha ha ha, how did that happen.]