The sensation of someone's hands in his hair is almost entirely foreign. A few times that Hera's smoothed it back, a rare playful ruffle from Kanan, or a rough noogie from Zeb, but for the most part people don't really touch his head. Not since... not since his parents...

Ezra falls quiet, and not because he'd been chastised (really, Qui-Gon, that curse had been mild). More because he's unsure, almost lost, because he has nothing to compare this with, nothing to tell him what to do, except for dusty memories of loving family, and that... Qui-Gon isn't... Qui-Gon is...

Caught in the uncertainty, Ezra holds himself still. It doesn't take long, though still long enough for the rhythmic motions of combing and taming his hair to almost... start to feel soothing. And then all too soon it's over, leaving Ezra blinking and still unsure how to even respond to it.

Well, other than doing what Qui-Gon just said. He looks up at the Master, one self-conscious hand going to his hair, before a tentative smile finds its way on his face.

"I- Thanks. I'll be right back."

It'll only take him a minute. He knows where the nearest mirror is.

Well, no, make that two minutes. Just a few seconds to get to the mirror, but the rest of the time spent looking at his reflection and letting the sheer difference try to sink in.