You know how all those comic book covers shout that the story inside reaches some "senses-shattering" conclusion? Right, as if. This is senses-shattering, people: seeing Night Girl crash through a floor, bouffante-first, her hairdo unaffected, unmoved, imperturbable, like...
That floor, by the way? Inertron. 100 % pure. Shatters my senses just to look at it; can't feel fingers; blinded, typing from kinetic memory.
But perhaps you're some sort of superbeing and have survived, senses dimmed but intact. Then, prithee, cast your remaining hypervision on this little vignette, pregnant with impossibility: Lydda intends to but THAT fishbowl on THAT hairdo.
Hearing ... gone! Aural faculties ... shattered!
It's okay. I can still recover. It's not like she's actually going to be able to get it...
AHHHG! NO NO NO! THAT'S! NOT! POSSIBLE!!!!!
That helmet cannot be on head. Her head cannot be in the helmet.
Some sort of ... supertesseract power inherent in the hair itself? Are its myriad of curls and wavelets actually shifting fractal constructs that deform space around it?
I ... can't ... can't smell anything now. *sob*
It's her! That bewitching space-sorceress, Night Girl! She's doing it somehow. Is she actually Sensor Girl in disguise, warping my perception?
She ... but wait! There she is, in a wheelchair and dying from Crimson Virus ...
BUT HER HAIR IS UNAFFECTED.
Unaffected. Unmoved. Imperturbable. Like GOD.
Sense of reason: gone!
Sens of time: gone
Sense of self: gone!
My sense of identity shattered, I am now become Fire Lad. Crestfallen at Night Girl's blissful unawareness of her effects on others, on society, on reality itself. My wild tangle of unruly and severely over-colored hair matted down in contemplation of the incomprehensible complexity of the superbouffante's shifting moire' patterns of cold, unfeeling obsidian mass, a metaphysical black hole of meaning, so immense in its gravity and power that ...