5SOS Imagines

Michael - Dying His Hair

Author: Rhine

-

"Are you sure about this?"

"Relax, Michael. It's just some hair, you'll be fine."

"Just hair? Just hair?"

"Oh, I'm sorry – I meant beautifully luscious mane of waterfall silkiness, sorry."

"That's more like it."

He smirks and you roll your eyes, toying with your boyfriend's hair spiking up from his head, your eyes meeting his in the mirror and catching the split second reflection of anxiety that shines through.

You see his knees jittering in the chair and the way his smile is a little less than his usual half-smirk; he tries to hide it from you but Michael's always worn his heart on his sleeve, at least for you.

He finally gave in – alright, alright just please don't make my scalp a wasteland in two days, yeah? – and you know that Michael letting you handle his prized hair was more than a big deal.

It's who he is, really – the shock of colour, the drenching of black, the bleaching of white – Michael's hair was something he cultivated as his own – haha, get it? – and having someone else handle it – at least someone as clumsy as you – was like giving you full reign in deciding who he'll grow to be with coloured ends.

A little dramatic, but he gave you a full fifteen minute speech on the importance of his tresses – the most serious conversation you've ever had with him, really – that finally ended with a sigh and resigned shoulders that accepted the weight of what he was letting you do.

You joked about it, but you knew how much it meant to Michael – maybe he overplayed just a little – but it was a wholehearted trust that you didn't want to screw up, despite your purposefully confused inquires of bleach that widened his green eyes into panic alarms.

He's settled in the worn chair of your home and most likely saying a mournful goodbye to the hair he'd be sacrificing to your unskilled hands at this moment, gazing sorrowfully at his reflection in the mirror and completely ignoring your raised eyebrows looking down on him.

"It's not like I'm going to kill you, Michael – it'll be fine. It's just a little hair dye."

"Yeah, but there's the very large chance that you'll kill my hair – I don't trust you with any objects that sound like the word die."

"Don't make me strap you in."

"Save it for later, sweetie. I know you're eager for the chance to."

"And I know you're dreading what I'm about to do, which is why you keep on talking to prolong the inevitable. Now close your mouth – don't give me that look, Michael Gordon Clifford – listen, don't give me an incentive to pour bleach instead of hair dye. Stay still and be a good boy."

"I'm punk rock, I do what I want." He mutters underneath his breath, though he obediently quiets down soon after you spin the chair away from the mirror, nothing left for him to gauge the damage but his imagination.

You feel him tense with the first touch of your fingertips to his scalp, and his shoulders still clench for minutes after; not their usual comfortable leaning towards your touch, on high alert instead.

You run your fingers through the long tufts of his hair, making sure to coat the tresses with the gooey hair dye that leaves the strands glossed out, a bright shock of colour underneath the dim lights.