Dying Greasy Unwashed Hair Novels & Stories

It didn’t wash away the dream, the eyes, the shadow of my uncle’s presence. I reached for the shampoo, squeezing a handful into my palm. I scrubbed hard at my hair, desperate to erase the green. My fingers clawed at the strands, but the color wouldn’t fade. It clung stubbornly, brighter with every rinse, like it was a part of me now. I dropped the shampoo bottle, watching it float in the water. “I give up,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. When I finally stepped out, my towel clung to me, dripping water across the floor. I rubbed my hair with both hands, but no matter how much I dried, the green sparkles still glowed faintly against the darker strands.

Then she walks past me with tears in her eyes. The man is absolutely disgusting, and I know that no woman in her right mind would have sex with him, he has greasy hair pulled to the side covering his bald patch on the top of his head, his mustache has seen better days, and his enormous stomach flaps over his pants leaving a small gap between the buttons showing his skin.

Hanna. “That fucking bitch!” I screamed, scrubbing my body violently to get off the dirt that I had put on myself earlier all because I was out of my mind. I felt so filthy that no matter how much water I used, I still felt unclean. My hair felt greasy and heavy, even though I had just poured half a bottle of expensive apple shampoo straight over my head. I do not think I will ever feel clean again, and there is only one person to blame for this.

“You look unwell.” I showered every day because I couldn’t stand oily hair, but I put no effort into my appearance. Instead of giving myself a blowout for shiny and silky hair, I let it air-dry. As a result, I had a disheveled appearance. I didn’t bother with makeup, so my face was washed out, my features all blending together in an unremarkable look. “I came by because I wanted to talk to you about something.” “I’m listening,” he said quickly, anxious to hear the source of my misery.

They clattered against the pile of her old life. Then, she mixed the dye. The chemical stench filled the kitchen, sharp and toxic, the smell of her rebirth. She put on the plastic gloves and, with the same frantic, brutal energy, she worked the cold, black sludge into her remaining hair. She scrubbed it into her scalp, her nails digging in, the dye staining her skin, her neck, the old towel. She was erasing herself. She waited forty-five minutes, shivering in the cold kitchen, the dye dripping, a crown of black tar.

He runs his hands through his sweat-drenched hair, pacing now and working himself up. "They were wearing tattered cloaks that looked like they got kicked out of a Halloween store. Moldy. Probably smelled like a basement that flooded in 1947." He gestures wildly at nothing. “Look at this!” He twisted, inspecting an imaginary dirt on his arms. “Those bitches look like they shopped in thrift stores all their lives...very poor fashion taste" He hissed. "Who knows how many dry-cleaning cycles it will take to get graveyard funk out of your soul? I’m gonna need a silkwood shower and probably soak myself in bleach. Twice.”

His hands are still behind his head and damn it, my gaze goes straight back to his stomach. “Can you not lay like that.” I blurt out. Shit. Where did that come from? “Huh.” He looks confused but doesn’t move. Okay, it’s on me to get a grip. I distract myself by sitting at my dresser and brushing my long hair. Should I fix it in a high ponytail or straighten it? At the moment it’s a mangle of curls bordering on dreadlocks. I’m crap at brushing my hair. Forgot to mention that. Usually I grab it and stick it up in a pony or a messy bun. It usually only gets brushed when I wash it. Which is only once a week. I used to wash it daily but my hairdresser told me that it’s so bad because I’m strippin

At this point, the combination of financial desperation and the need for a profound life change played a colossal part in my decision. Being a human prune and sitting in nuke-warm, dirty water, I ended the two-hour call with Maleek, drained the tub, and turned the shower on. I rinsed the access dirt and washed what seemed like five separate rinses of matted hair. Finally, after over an hour and forty-five minutes in the shower and the water running cold, I got out, taking a look at myself in the mirror again. In disbelief, I was at least two shades lighter and damn near ashamed for allowing myself to get this way. I couldn’t comb through my hair because it was subsequently still extremely ma

I did take off the jewelries but decided to leave my hair falling messily. I groan and roll over in my bed, not ready to get up, feeling lazy. I slowly get up sitting, slinging my feet over the side of the bed and on the cold floor. I suddenly felt dizzy, so I grabbed my head, massaging it. My stomach churned up, I ran to the CR and vomited and vomited on the washroom. I knelt here while one hand held my hair to prevent it from falling, which could have been an obstacle. It took me almost five minutes vomiting and releasing water in my body. I can taste its sourness. I wiped my mouth using the back of my other hand. I flushed the toilet. I went to the sink to brush my teeth and wash my face.

I sit up groggily with my hair all over the place. I need to pee. I walk to the bathroom. I sit I think about what happened. My mates a bit of a dick. He's cocky and arrogant and I don't like him. I thought after the first night he would be sweet and caring but no! I flip my head back so all my hair flies out of my face. I look in the mirror at my reflection while a wash my hands. I look like shit. The bags under my eyes look deathly black. My skin seems to ooze a grey glow. My hair hangs lifelessly and the grease sticks it to my scalp. I look like a Tim Burton character.