A Touch-Up For Shady
The bathroom smelled like a toxic mix of chemical peroxide and the half smoked blunt he’d abandoned on the edge of the sink, a thin spiral of gray smoke curling toward the ceiling. Marshall was leaning so close to the mirror his forehead almost touched the glass, squinting at his dark roots with a scowl that usually meant a reporter had pissed him off earlier that day.
“Yo, it’s getting dark again,” he muttered, rubbing a hand aggressively over his head before turning to face her. “Look at this. I look crazy. Fix it before we gotta leave for the venue.”
“I’m trying to, but you won’t sit still for two seconds,” she said, shaking the plastic bottle of developer in her hand.
She had to physically grab him by the shoulders and push him down onto the closed toilet lid. He let out a dramatic groan but stayed put, a dark towel draped over his oversized white tee to catch the drips. Even sitting down, he was a jumble of nervous, restless energy—his foot tapping a rapid, frantic rhythm against the bathmat, his eyes darting around the small space. He was under fire from the entire media world right now, and the bleach was part of the armor he wore to face it. But in here, with the door locked, the loud public persona was dialed back, replaced by the raw, hyperactive guy who just needed a second to breathe.
She parted his hair with the tail comb, gently pressing the first brush stroke of cold bleach against his scalp. He flinched, his shoulders tensing up instantly.
“Damn, that’s freezing,” he complained, rolling his eyes up to try and look at her. “If my hair falls out from this, I’m telling the press you did it on purpose. “
“Local rapper bald after domestic dispute.” he changed his voice suddenly to sound like a news anchor.
“Keep talking and I’ll accidentally leave it on for two hours,” she teased, smoothing another layer over his roots.
A faint, quick smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He quieted down for a minute, his hands coming up to grab at the back of her thighs, his gaze dropping to the floor. As her gloved fingers worked the thick mixture through his hair, massaging it in to make sure it was even, she felt the tension slowly drain out of his neck. The constant tapping of his foot stopped. He let out a long, heavy sigh—the kind he only let out when it was just the two of them—and leaned his head back slightly against her hands, closing his eyes.
For a rare moment, the chaos outside didn't exist. He didn't have to be defensive, or angry, or on guard. He was just Marshall, trusting her completely with the look that defined him to the rest of the world.
The peace lasted exactly two minutes before the chemical heat started to kick in.
"How much longer do I gotta sit here looking like a Q-tip? It’s burning. Is it supposed to itch like this, or are you trying to fry my brain cells?" he said, his eyes snapping open as he reached up to scratch at his sideburns. She swatted his hand away.
“No, seriously, it’s itching like crazy. Is it supposed to feel like someone’s lighting a match on my skull?”
“It’s lifting, Marshall. It’s supposed to tingle. Don’t touch it.”
He groaned again, leaning forward to put his head in his hands, staring at his reflection in the mirror as the dark strands slowly began to turn a pale, bright yellow. “Man, the shit I do for Shady,” he muttered, though his reflection caught hers in the glass, his eyes softening just enough to let her know he wouldn't want anyone else doing this for him.
