And just as Grimmjow describes, those long, silky locks slide effortlessly though the comb in Nnoitra's hand. As eyes trail up the sleek strands, though, he's met with that familiar irritated expression.
"Where the hell did you pick up THAT bullshit??"
"How stunning is thy beauty. Radiant are thy locks; deep and silky as a raven's feathers."
He says leaning by the threshold with arms crossed.