I loved your stupid floofy hair!
(oneshot/fluff)
pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader
summary: Logan gets a haircut. You collapse like it's a funeral. Name his lost hair Greg. Mourn for 3 months straight. Refuse to cook him full meals. Threaten the barber. Sighs like a widow. Greg starts growing back. You weep with joy.
word counts: 1.3k
warnings/tags: Domestic chaos, hair-related betrayal, and unholy levels of fluff, soft logan
a/n: Logan is nothing without his floof hair, when he cuts short like in gif he bite the apple, i also mourned the floof. (LIES, he is hotter in that haircut too. GAHH)
Logan masterlist
The cabin was quiet.
It had been for most of the morning. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the trees. The stream gurgled gently a few yards off. A pot of something simmered on the stove behind you. You’d been waiting for him all day. He’d gone into town to pick up supplies, maybe stop by the mechanic, probably take forever as usual.
So when the pickup finally rumbled up the gravel path and crunched to a halt outside. You opened the door expecting the usual — the faint smell of pine, maybe cigar smoke, definitely something like leather and gasoline. The heavy sound of his boots on the porch. A grunt. A kiss on your cheek. Standard Logan-returning-home protocol.
Only, instead of Logan and all his glorious, familiar, slightly-greasy forest-man disarray—
You were met with a war crime.
He stepped out of the truck. Stretched. Tugged a couple of grocery bags from the back.
And you froze.
Solid.
Mid-step.
Mid-breath.
You blinked.
Then blinked again.
He turned casually toward you, unaware that your soul had already begun the process of evacuating your body.
“Hey, sweetheart—”
Your legs gave out.
Fully and dramatically.
You dropped to your knees like a mourning widow in a historical drama. A hand clutched your chest. Your mouth opened soundlessly, like you couldn’t find the words. Like there were no words that could possibly articulate what you were witnessing.
Logan’s brows pulled together. He dropped the bags on the porch and stomped over, crouching next to you, strong hands on your shoulders.
“Hey—hey, what’s wrong? You okay?”
You just… stared.
At the crime scene that was his head.
“…What,” you croaked, pointing slowly. “What is that.”
“What?” He reached up and ran a hand over the buzzed sides and shortened top, like he hadn’t just committed absolute treason. “It’s just a haircut. Got it cleaned up a bit. Too hot for the mop.””
“Just a—?”
You staggered to your feet. Backpedaled like you’d seen a ghost. Then turned dramatically toward the woods, as if needing to scream into the void.
Cleaned up a bit was an understatement.
The glorious floofy mane — that unruly, thick, half-curling mess you spent years defending from clippers and teasing your fingers through every time he laid in your lap — was gone. Now he looked like Calvin Klein live ad. Not Your Lumberjack Logan.
Slain. Sheared. Betrayed.
You made a sound that could only be described as emotional collapse.
“I trusted you,” you said in a shaky voice. “I loved your stupid floofy hair. I named it.”
Logan blinked. “You named it?”
“Greg.”
“You named my hair Greg.”
“You’ve killed Greg, Logan!”
His face twitched.
“Look, it was hot. It kept fallin’ in my eyes—”
“IT WAS SUPPOSED TO FALL IN YOUR EYES. THAT WAS ITS PURPOSE. IT’S LITERALLY WHY I EXIST. TO BRUSH IT OFF FROM YOUR EYESSS!”
“I needed to see, darlin’.”
“Oh, God,” you whispered. “It’s worse than I thought. You sound like a cop. It had bounce. It had shape. It had volume. It looked like a shampoo commercial and now you look like you’re about to enlist.”
“C’mon, sweetheart, don’t be ridiculous—”
You looked over your shoulder, heartbroken. “Do you even know what you took from me?”
He leaned in the doorway, clearly trying not to grin. “You’ll live.”
“I won’t. I won’t live. I’m going to fade into dust like Spider-Man in Infinity War.”
He made a confused face. “What the hell is that?”
“Exactly. You’ve hurt me beyond explanation.”
That made him snort, despite himself.
But you were not laughing. You were fully spiraling. You turned back to him, dramatic as ever, tears nearly welling in your eyes.
“I’m gonna have to learn how to love you again. Like I’m with a stranger.”
He stepped forward, grabbing your waist and pulling you into him, grounding, steady. You smacked at his chest weakly.
“This is betrayal,” you murmured, burying your face in his shirt. “This is emotional terrorism. You should’ve warned me. Sent a text. Let me say goodbye to Greg.”
“You want me to apologize to the hair on my head?”
“No, I want you to apologize to me,” you snapped, pushing him off and storming toward the truck. “And I want the name of the man responsible.”
He jogged after you. “Where are you going now?”
“To town,” you said over your shoulder. “To confront Carl the Butcher and ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing, endangering civilian relationships like this.”
“You’re gonna scare the barber.”
“GOOD. Maybe next time he’ll call me before committing an atrocity.”
He caught your arm gently before you could get in the truck. Turned you around. That damn smirk barely hidden beneath the roughness of his voice.
“You really liked it that much, huh?”
You huffed. Crossed your arms. “You think I date you for your sparkling personality?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he grinned, leaning in. “You do.”
“…Shut up.”
He kissed your forehead anyway. “It’ll grow back.”
“I’m not speaking to you until it does.”
“Bet I can change your mind.”
“You can try, but Greg would’ve done it better.”
He laughed, fully now. “You’re ridiculous.”
You sniffled and stepped back into the cabin, ignoring him for the rest of the day. You only made your plate at dinner. You ate the entire last slice of pie. You refused to look at him except to sigh dramatically.
Still, that night — after he crawled into bed, after your legs found their way to tangle with his on instinct, after you ended up tucked against his chest despite yourself — you mumbled against his collarbone:
“…I miss Greg.”
Logan sighed.
“I’ll grow him back for you, baby.”
You smiled, triumphant and half-asleep.
“Good.”
Three months. No Greg. Only grief.
You’d sighed so much over the past three months that Logan was beginning to suspect you’d forgotten how to breathe any other way.
Not dramatic, over-the-top sighs either. No — these were long, suffering, resigned sighs. The kind that came from somewhere deep in the chest. The kind that sounded like the world had disappointed you so thoroughly that recovery was no longer an option.
They followed him everywhere.
In the kitchen? Sigh.
On the porch? Sigh.
In bed, right before you rolled away from him like a widow in mourning?
Sigh.
At first, he thought you were being a little shit about it on purpose. That it was your weird, emotional revenge for the haircut heard 'round the world. And maybe it was at first.
But by week three, he started to worry.
Because now you weren’t even being vocal about it anymore. You didn’t say anything. Just watched the top of his head like you were waiting for spring to return after a nuclear winter. Some days, you even patted it. Once, he swore he caught you whispering “grow, damn you” under your breath while watering the garden.
“I can literally regrow limbs, sweetheart,” he muttered one night, holding you when you finally allowed it again. “Hair ain’t the problem.”
“Yes it is,” you mumbled into his neck. “Greg’s soul hasn’t come back yet.”
“Baby, I—”
“Shh. Don’t speak. Just suffer with me.”
And he did.
He endured.
He took the way you handed him dinner with a withering look and a soft, distant sigh. He took the way you stroked old photos of him like a grieving widow in a telenovela. He even tolerated the time you made a tiny gravestone out of a rock, planted it in the garden, and labeled it RIP GREG — You Were Lush, You Were Loved.
But the worst part?
The gasp you let out when, finally, after exactly three months and two days, you opened the bathroom door and found him toweling off after a shower — his hair slightly damp and finally long enough to flop back into his eyes again.
You didn’t speak.
Just stood there, one hand braced on the wall, eyes wide and glassy like some long-lost soldier had returned from war.
“…Is it—” you whispered hoarsely, “Is it really you?”
Logan raised an eyebrow.
“It’s back, ain’t it?”
Your knees buckled. Again, hugging his legs with joy. Your floof Greg is back.