Daniel absolutely snorted at that one, for multiple reasons, which he made known.

"Ah, yes, well, I'll just ask one of the orderlies to style my hair." he said, chuckling to himself. HE hadn't thought about his hair at all in the time he had been here. His mind flashed back to New Years Eve, five months ago. He'd spent it with his family, and his girlfriend at the time insisted on cutting his hair and slicking it to one side. Back when he actually gave a shit about how he looked. He looked nice though. People had said that about him. It felt so long ago.

"Wow, man, I haven't thought about my hair in months. Probably because I'm too busy thinking about just how shitty it is here, right?"

He leaned in, a bit of seriousness in his voice now, his eyes piercing hers with a certain intensity he rarely had. He pressed his face against the bars, gripping them a bit with his hands as he began to speak.

"Listen, these people? These people are a bunch of sick fucks. They don't care about any of the people in here, and it's not right. The patients have things they need. Medications, belongings, needs, basic fucking human rights, that they don't get. That [i]we[/i] don't get. That isn't right, it's fucking mind blowingly awful. I'm telling you this because you seem like you know how to handle yourself--you obviously can, you're a goddamned fighting machine. The point is, when they deprive you of that right, just take it. Just act like you don't care. It fucking [i]kills[/i] them if their torture methods don't work, it's fucking [i]beautiful[/i] when it happens. Modern art. They're a bunch of fucking children, dont give them the satisfaction of getting pissed."

He stepped back now, smiling mischievously. 

"I try to do it at least once a day. You should too, it's great for stress relief."