Dying Greasy Unwashed Hair Novels & Stories

Blake shrugged, he turned the burner off and open the lid, the smoke brought the smell of cheese, chorizo, and tomatoes to my nose. "I remember I walked over a burning pit, it must've caught the smell." I nervously sniffed my top and my oily hair stick decided to snap my hair tie in two. My hair wasn't washed for days now. And it's slimy, stinky, and oily. I wonder why they didn't notice that smell first, before my clothes. "When will you stop lying to us?"

The water is freezing. My entire body shivers violently but I had to do it. I had to wash. Not only do I absolutely stink but I’m still covered in blood, in grime, in all the remnants of death. I scrub at my skin with my hands, having nothing else to use to get all the dirt off. My hair is so matted it seems pointless to even try to sort it out but I duck my head, and try to ease out the knots.

He laughs again and smacks my bum, hanging on his shoulder. "You didn't put the cream down, I'm not putting you down." he says, and it's final. We didn't actually need a lot of time to clean ourselves up, especially because neither of us really cares about the way our hair looks; Axel has given up on controlling his locks a long time ago, and I have given up because there is so much hair on my head that I would need two days to straighten it. And my hair gets greasy after three days, so there really isn't a point to it. It's quite straight anyway, thank God.

He only kept troubling me. I managed to lay on the bed, hoping to get some sleep, but suddenly, a disgusting smell swarmed into my nostrils, almost making me puke. I instantly knew it was coming from my hair. I hadn’t washed it in days. I sighed and decided to give it a wash, even though I knew it would be almost impossible with my hands. I went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, staring at my greasy, messy hair. I just couldn’t overlook it anymore.

You can imagine a cat that's burnt and hairless with left over furs on it’s body, well they looked just that scary and disgusting. data-p-id=0d52ad997053c0b648eb675d3aebf8b0, Sasha tied her hair in a very messy bun, Tamara has her hair in a ponytail, and don't even get me started on Valarie's hair. It looked so lifeless and sad that I almost felt bad for the poor thing. They all looked like they haven't showered in days, all dressed in oversized sweaters and shorts. "What in God's name is happening here?" I yell sharply from both anger and surprise and at first they stared back at me briefly with a surprised look but turn away with disappointed look on their faces.

The air was thick with the smell of stale grease, and something far worse,the cloying, metallic tang of necrotic rot. Anna struggled onto one elbow, her head spinning with a violent vertigo. She looked down at herself through older, more experienced eyes. She wasn't in a gossamer white dress anymore. She was wearing a pair of grease stained jeans and a black tank top that had been shredded almost to ribbons.

We are not thinking about that greasy food that I am unable to have for god knows when. "Finally! Took you long enough baby sis, and look at you, you finally developed and don't look like a homeless child anymore! Well done!" Willow exclaimed with her newly dyed blonde hair that looks damaged to the point it is about to fall out at any point, but who am I to say when she is the "oh so beautiful Willow".

The boy had been dressed no better, in rags fitting a street urchin what passed for shoes worn and patched along with the discolored trousers and barely seamed shirt that was draped over his tiny body. The woman whose naturally light brown hair looked dark in the gloomy daylight and dyed via the rain-soaked soot was wild and dangled at great length from the woman's back. The boy's hair had been unkempt as far as the wild locks of a child go, as his family had no means of keeping it trimmed.

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.

She, too, is desperate to get it washed off. That’s so disgusting. We’re wearing dead creatures as face powder. I think I might vomit. No wonder it smelled so funky and had a weird, off-grey color. It’s clinging to my skin and any natural moisture or oils, turning into a warpaint of sorts. I catch my mom shaking her head after us, in no way stopping us or helping us get out, as we drop smelly dust clouds with every movement.