Dying Greasy Unwashed Hair Novels & Stories

Five years of showers that smelled like bleach and despair. Never again. As I reached for the shampoo—a bottle that promised “silky, goddess-like locks”—I couldn’t help but laugh. “Silky locks,” I snorted. “Let’s aim for ‘not resembling a bird’s nest,’ and then we’ll talk.” I scrubbed my scalp until it tingled, rinsed, and repeated like a woman on a mission. By the time I was done, the water had turned downright gross. I pulled the plug, watching the murky evidence of my prison life swirl down the drain.

Am I the girl who has finally captured Cody Brannigan? God, so many questions, with no freakin’ answers. I slope further down into the bath but careful not to get my hair wet. I only washed it last night, so I don’t want to have to wash it again. I’m not the kind of girl who washes her hair every day, that’s just bad for it, stripping all the essential oils out. I mean, I used to. But my hairdresser told me a few years back, that it’s better to only wash it once a week. Since I was paying her like a hundred and fifty bucks for a trim on a regular basis in NYC, I thought it prudent to take her advice. And low and behold, my hair stopped being so ratty, the shine came back and now it’s long an

a man said furiously. He had a spiky mohawk hairstyle like a cliché rockstar. He had a bushy beard and he had a larger physique compared to Disgustington. Gray’s face slightly twitched upon seeing his hair. “Did a band throw up on you, Mohawk?” she thought to herself. “I-I was just pissing!” said Disgustington, averting his eyes. “You, f*ckwit!” Mohawk slapped him with the back of his hand. “Can’t you control your own damn d*ck?!”

When I finally get the water going, I look up. ​I catch my reflection in the giant, gold-rimmed mirror and I just... I want to curl up on the floor and die. My hair is this giant, frizzy, tangled rat’s nest. The cheap gray hoodie I bought on sale for twelve dollars is ripped clean down the front, showing my cheap bra and too much skin, and my face is just a total disaster. There's dried tears, mascara tracks, and his... his release is still drying on my cheek. It's sticky and gross and it makes me feel like absolute, literal trash. Just dirt under his expensive Italian shoes.

The child didn't survive long. Desperate, Alistair even tried to borrow money from me, but he couldn't enter my company. My trash bins were transparent; there was no hiding. He camped outside my office for nearly half a month, only to discover I had already left the country and was preparing to marry someone else. Drunk and defeated, he staggered home. Lisa watched in horror as her child died in her arms. In a rage, she killed Alistair. Meanwhile, I was abroad preparing for my own wedding.

he grumbled. "You see? Your name suits you perfectly well! Mr Grumpy Pants is such a befitting name for you. No, don't take me wrong. I am not insulting you neither am I body shaming you. I was just thinking, you know? And if you might be interested, I have a special hair growth recipe I want to share with you. And do you know what makes it better? You can actually rub it on your skin for more glow!" I said and he raised an eyebrow.

The thought alone dreaded him. Frazier pushed the fallen lock of dark blond hair away from his eyes and flushed the toilet. His hair had gotten longer and the last thing he wanted was to see them fall off because of the chemotherapeutic drugs. Absentmindedly his hand rose and gripped a handful of hair at the front and pulled. Nothing happened. Still, he would prefer to have them cut. The fact that he couldn’t just jump into his car and drive to the barber ticked him off and reminded him how dependent he was on other people.

Logan looked petrifying today with a repugnant odour surrounding him. His eyes were droopy and his clothes scruffy and unkempt. His hair was a tangled mess, the kind where you touch it and your finger would get stuck. There was a dark stubble on his jaw because he hadn't shaved in a while and it looked horrendous. He didn't look one bit good and I didn't blame him. It didn't take me a long while to figure out that he wasn't in his best mental health- depression was ugly.

She then remembered her mother's statement, "Washing the hair without washing the scalp is almost like bathing without soap.' Sam smiled as she remembered how she did convert her Mum's statement to several other meanings. "Washing the hair without washing the scalp is almost like staying without make-up for Rose.' 'No. It's too lame.' Sam chuckled. "Washing the hair without washing the scalp is almost like making an omelette without chilli pepper." Sam smiled as this was the Ideal statement. She can't eat omelette without chilli pepper because it is yuck to her. She would probably throw up the whole day.

I took one look at him and gasped. His hair was dirty and matted, greasy even. It looked like he hadn’t washed it in at least a week. He emitted a sour stench, a mix of body odor and whiskey. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and he’d lost so much weight that his once muscular chest had lost most of its definition. His face was pale and pasty. His flamingo-patterned shorts hung loosely around his hips. He had a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hands. He was wasting away, quite literally.