Daryl makes a 'hn' noise that might be a laugh. Still cradling him with one arm, he brings his other hand up to gentle brush through Jesus's tangled hair with his fingers-- if he snags something he stops and rubs his scalp a little. Is he helping or making it worse, that is the question. (No, he's helping.)

"Maybe you'll finally have to shave it off," he mumbles, even though he's still dutifully picking a knot loose. "Thinkin' about doing mine that way."

Jesus didn't know him when he had shorter hair, but it was alright, probably. Daryl doesn't have the patience to actually let somebody cut it properly, so if it goes, it's all going in one fell swoop.