His attention snaps back up. "It is not. Your face is a devilish scorn against trollmanity and I won't stand for it." His hands have shot up too, motioning up and around his cheeks with what is probably too much proximity. "I will flay off my cheeks, and I will meet sandpaper with sandpaper, I will dig out my own ill-placed follicles and burn them. I'll go to the stylists, on purpose, and beg them to fix me."

He's frowning now, petulant and defiant. "You can't stop me."