Dying Greasy Unwashed Hair Novels & Stories

"Why have you cut off your long, beautiful hair?" Indrashrugs her shoulders. "After the bath, it was impossible to untangle my hair because of all the dirt and dried blood. It was easier to just cut it off." "But it was so beautiful. I could have helped you brush it out." "Why do you care about what I look like?"

My skin stretched taut across my skeleton, paper-thin and yellowing like old parchment. My hair—once my crown glory, thick and golden and shining—hung in greasy tangles down my back, matted in places, falling out in others. Nothing like the honey-blonde perfection I’d glimpsed upstairs, bouncing in sunlight as she laughed. When I ran my fingers through mine, strands came away, like I was slowly unraveling from the top down.

I put my hands under the water streaming out of the faucet, scrubbing at my chest and arms, watching the red blood of thousands wash off of me. I dunked my head under the faucet next, trying to wash out the knots and clumps of blood. Of course, if something doesn't come out, I can just cut it out. I try my best to keep my hair short, but when the nightmare master has control, it ends up growing too long. I'm not really sure why I still bother to cut it because not only does it grow too long, but no matter how much I wash it, the tint of red in my black hair never goes away. I washed my hair until the water no longer turned red before shutting it off and reaching for the scissors on the count

I do smell awful. Looking in the mirror I see that my beard has grown out and I look like a wild man. It is sticking out in different directions. My hair is greasy and smells awful. Streaks of blood still cover my skin from the battle with the coven priestesses. I am disgusting. As much as I hate to admit it, I don't want Keena to wake up and see me like this. I don't want her to think that I cannot take care of myself without her around.

She tripped on her toes in happiness. She made her way to the bathroom. Staring at herself in the mirror. She could hardly recognize herself. Her face was brown from all the dust. Her hair is oily from never washing it. She didn’t know who she was anymore. She turned towards the shower and turned it on. Watching the steam come out of the shower. Her smile returned. Taking off her old clothes and throwing them onto the ground. Climbing into the shower.

Crepe Paper Red smiled at me with those yellow teeth, batting those fake eyelashes that looked like two caterpillars over her eyes. "Oh, honey! Don't be silly, this one is that thing, ummm... what's it called, people... those young girls who go around with rich old men." The one with paint-black hair spoke and I kept staring - somehow her hair was the strangest, it looked like the dye job had gone wrong and it seemed like she had grease on her head and everything was smudged.

and pulled her wig out. As the wig was yanked off, Laura’s natural hair sprang free in a chaotic mess - a tangled nest of uneven strands, some matted and others sticking out in wild, frizzy tufts. The greasy sheen suggested days without proper care, while a few brittle ends split like frayed wires. Dark roots clashed with faded, patchy dye, as if color had been hastily applied and then neglected. The overall effect was disheveled and unkempt, amplifying the staff members' cruel laughter as they took in the sight. Strands stuck to her forehead and neck, damp with nervous sweat, completed the image of someone who had long stopped tending to herself.

Was I that dirty? My hair was greasy, and I doused myself in shampoo, allowing it to soak on top of my scalp, drawing every inch of dirt from it. My limbs screamed every time I leaned down to grab a new bottle, but I ignored the pain. Showering was going to make me feel better, and I hadn't actually realized how much I needed one. Theonardo wouldn't want to wake up to see me looking like I had just rolled around in a pigsty.

or too tired to undress…? And when I look at my beautiful Jade-Eyes, she's not washed. Close up, she smells rank, of grease and sweat. Her long hair, usually rich and lustrous, hangs in rats' tails. Her grace, her beauty and her joie de vivre are all eclipsed by weariness and a lack of hope. She coughs, and I don't like the rattle of her chest She must be breathing damp and spores and fuck knows what.... "You're living here?" I demand. "In an area like this?"

“Could you imagine how hard it would be to maintain in the current crisis? Hairdressers aren’t exactly taking appointments.” “She has a point,” a woman said. “And it would be a very talented hairdresser to get it that shade. Green and black,” she walked around Niarthen into Lyric’s line of sight. She was naked, and beautiful, and had two inches of darker blond regrowth showing with lighter ends. She looked up at Niarthen with more than casual interest and Lyric narrowed her eyes. “Incredible,” the woman murmured. “You can almost see the shimmer of scales beneath his skin.”