Get me Out of My Mind (Brendon Urie)

14. Damn Your Kiss

       

It has quickly become apparent that I know even less about hair care than I thought I did.

When I said I wanted blue hair, I assumed it meant that Brendon would chuck a bottle of blue dye in it and within the hour, I'd be working that marge simpson look. Alas, it is far more complicated than that- not to mention much, much more annoying.

Because my hair is dark, he informs me that he has to bleach it. Twice. At first, I don't mind too much, because as stupid as it is, it actually feels nice to have Brendon running his fingers through my hair again and again. At one point, when his fingertips rub against my neck, I can't help doing a little shimmy in my seat, then immediatey regretting it when I see Brendon's face smirking at me in the mirror.

"That feel good, hmm?"

"Ye- No." I force a pathetic scowl onto my face. "It feels terrible. Ow. You suck."

I have to repeat this to myself many, many times when he starts combing my wet hair with his fingers. Um. Well. Brendon's fingers are surprisingly soft and they do feel nice and- No. Shush.

The first lot of bleach feels delightfully like my head's been submerged in acid. Brendon isn't even considerate enough to stick by me while I marinate in my pain and whine and groan- he just trots over to the next chair, and starts working on Claire's hair. Claire, naturally, looks like a model in the chair, her curls spilling down the back of the stupid microfibre cape thing that we have to wear.

I look back at myself. There's foil and something that looks almost like baking paper wrapped all over my hair, and it sticks up from my head at weird angles- I look like someone's dinner leftovers, gone wrong. For all I know, the next thing could be Brendon covering my face in saran wrap and sticking my entire head in a tupperware container in the fridge to complete the picture. The ugly nylon cape covers my body below my neck, and said neck sticks up from it awkwardly. It kind of reminds me of a head poking up from the ground in the whack-a-mole game or something equally as unflattering. (Whack-an-Erin, the latest new arcade craze! I would play that, to be honest.)

"How are you holding up, Erin?" Claire calls over from beside me. Brendon's carefully trimming the ends of her hair at the moment, and it's actually quite amusing to watch him in what I have now dubbed as full-stylist mode. He's even doing those little wrist flicks to get hair off his hand- I'm surprised that he doesn't grow one of those curly barber moustaches and start speaking in a fake Italian accent, to complete the whole effeminate stylist cliché. Perhaps I should suggest that to him. It might annoy him- which is precisely the reason why I think I should.

"I'm pissed off." I tell her firmly, folding my arms under the stupid cape thing I have to wear, something I've always hated. What really is the point? To protect your clothes? Well, unlike Claire who's wearing some kind of pretty sundress as usual, I for one do not give a shitake mushroom about my clothes.  "I feel like I'm balancing a heavy container of corrosive acid on my head."

"Beauty is pain," Brendon smirks from behind Claire, and I roll my eyes. (What a stupid statement to make. I mean, no matter how fantabulusly he manages to colour my hair, I personally believe that nothing could turn I, Erin Roberts, the human equivalent of... uh... a stalk of asparagus (Okay, so I couldn't think of a better description, so sue me) into what is considered conventionally beautiful, save for perhaps going Silence of the Lambs and stealing Claire's face in her sleep. Which I will not do- I'm not that much of a psycho.)

"Indeed it is, Urie. Which is why I think it's only fair that I punch you in your beautiful face, therefore causing you pain." I counter. Instead of focusing on the threat part, however, in true Brendon style he focuses on the slip that I really should not have made.