Blonde With Root Smudge Novels & Stories

I pressed my sleeve against my nose, trying to filter out the worst of it. "He's so loyal," the stylist — a woman named Dani with purple streaks in her own hair — cooed. "Mine won't even drive me here, let alone wait." "He's a little overprotective." "A lot overprotective," I corrected, still breathing through my sleeve. "What is that smell?" "Bleach. Developer. The usual." Dani painted another section of Elowen's roots. "We're touching up the pink. Her blonde's growing in."

_Zephyr’s POV_ The bathroom mirror was fogged up, but I could still make out my reflection through the steam. I sighed and reached for a towel, wrapping it tightly around my wet hair. Even without looking too closely, I could see it. The honey-blonde roots were back. The brown dye was fading again, and fast. It wouldn’t be long before the true color comes up.

I answered short. Then, she came to sit next to me, took a cigarette, and lit it without asking, as if the cigarette was her own. Then, she also looked at the surroundings. I could see her hazel eyes gleaming. Yeah, people often mistook it for brown or green. Cigarette smoke blew from her ripe lips. Once later, she moved her hair behind one of her ears. I could see her shrouded in a mist of elegance.

thick, dark hair. “Is this your real hair color?”, he asked. “Yes, why?” “No, it’s just looked perfect with your skin until I thought that it is a touch-up.” I chuckled. “Nah, I’m not that perfectly groomed until I gotta touch up my roots every few weeks. I bet you never have to, your hair color is way more perfect.” “Done that a few times, actually. I had to be a platinum blond guy once during a film, and a few months of shooting with constant triple-hair-root-bleaching were… scaldingly painful.”

With steady hands, the stylist paints strokes of cool-toned balayage through my hair, blending deep charcoal at the roots into a smoky silver, with delicate hints of violet. When she finally spins my chair back toward the mirror, I hardly recognize the woman staring back. Her eyes may appear bloodshot but her form is poised, her spirit resolute and unshaken. She is someone ready to rise. Althea beams behind me, her eyes shimmering with something unspoken. “Now that,” she says, pride lacing her voice, “is my Aretha.”

I twist my hair into a high ponytail, securing it with an elastic band from the vanity. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The woman staring back looks confident, determined. Her heterochromatic eyes—one brown, one amber—seem brighter somehow, more alive. The amber one catches light differently, almost glowing from within. My freckles stand out against skin flushed from the hot shower, giving me a healthy glow despite the exhaustion of recent days.

He should love you as you are, Skinny said a lifetime ago. She shook her head. Squeezed her eyes closed. “No, no, no.” Gripped and sawed her hair. “He doesn’t. He wanted brown.” Pulled and parted and sliced. “He chose brown.” Chopped the platinum free, letting it fall to her shoulders. “That’s an answer right there. Brown not blonde.” Hair fluttered to land at her knees, peroxide strands littering the stranger’s wide knees and pudgy feet. Soon her palm raced over a bare scalp, fingertips discovering jagged and peeling nicks she never felt. Slick, bleeding cuts she failed to notice. The blade returned, the spit in her hand wetting the remaining tufts as she shaved close.

She blushed. Someone else stare right back at her and that someone was so beautiful. The blonde wig fits her almost tan olive skin and she looks beautiful. Elsa knew she look beautiful but then this new Blondie that was staring right back at her is different

With wide eyes, I walked in, looking everywhere before my eyes met with someone else. She was tall, about the same height as the other girl in the sitting room watching TV. She had blonde hair that she had pulled into a bun, they didn't look like the original color, it was like she had dyed them blonde, while the roots were a deep shade of brown. She had fierce blue eyes, and her skin was so smooth and they glowed in the white crop top she wore and blue jeans. She was beautiful, and I could have mistaken her for a model.

“Rosie would freak out. And I wouldn’t even know what color to pick.” Sarah waved it off. “That’s why we’re here. I’m sure Pam can think of something,” she smiled at the stylist. “Of course,” Pam said, stepping in. “What do you think about blonde like Sarah here?” Blonde? I blinked at my reflection. Me? Blonde? No way. Sarah spoke before I could say anything. “No. There has to be only one blonde between the two of us, and I’m the resident blonde here.” I let out a small laugh.