Dying Greasy Unwashed Hair Novels & Stories

I felt its heaviness in my chest, so much that tears began to stream down as I pushed the metal through my mass of hair and began to cut it. The strands felt fluffy on my shoulder, but as soon as they touched the floor, they turned grey. My hands went round from my right shoulder to the left, until everything below my shoulder was lying on the floor, representing the ashes I was soon to be. Another round of effort, but I managed to have a bath with the warmest water I could draw up, even though it still burnt my skin. I changed into the new set of uniform I could find, applied a little mascara and glossed my lips. Taking my hair brush, I laid down what was left of my hair, running my hand th

Because of that, all showers tended to be under five minutes. I was the exception. It wasn't that I practically liked the showers here, it was just I always had the misfortune of picking the one that was out of shampoo or conditioner. I would just leave it, but I couldn't stand my hair when it wasn't properly taking care off. It felt gross and oily, and tangled into massive nats, that got caught in everything near my head. I couldn't stand it. Besides, my hair was probably my best feature, when cleaned and groomed right. It was a thick slick black, that hung in slight waves all the way to my ass. On the rare occasion I got a compliment, it was always directed at my hair.

He pushed me to the brink of death so many times, only to pull me back out with that cruel sick pleasure of his. Drowning was by far the worst but I begged for death so that he couldn’t touch me again. I close my eyes and take a breath in. I look down at the water and it’s a slight shade of brown. Gross. I lean toward the drain and lift the plug, letting my filth drain with it. Drying off and sliding on the wonderful shiny robe. I think silk is what Grace called this fabric, committing it to memory. I manage to wrap a towel around my head to keep my unruly hair contained.

Trinity's Pov My greasy hair was the main thing that gave away the fact that I had not sunk my body in my hot tub for four days. Without my essentials, I couldn't possibly wash my hair even though I craved doing so more than anything. Being in hiding was proving to be a bigger hassle than I thought.

Feeling faint and sick, she stripped off the slip dress and her underwear, tossing them into the wastebasket before crawling into the hot water. She washed her hair over and over again, trying to get the dried dirt oil - her hair had rubbed - gunk out. It was like trying to wash out oil paint. The scent of it lingered too, like the water from a vase after the flowers have rotted, faint and sweet and spoiled on her skin. No amount of soap seemed to be able to get rid of it.

Mister stood frozen in place as his mind forced him to take it all in. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. His eyes were wide open and his face had involuntarily contorted into a look of disgust. He had seen a lot of shit in his life, but this... this was some new level ass shit right here. Her hair had gone grey and it was tangled and matted. She was wrinkled and hunched over and her teeth were black with rot. She had a long, saggy pointed nose and her eyes were the color of puss from a bad infection.

“Well, aren’t you just a happy little bag of unicorn farts? What’s with the two of you this morning?” I scowl at Ayla, and Devin just ignores her altogether. “Nothing,” I utter and scratch my head. Ugh, I loathe having greasy hair. My scalp itches if I go longer than two days without washing my hair. I need a fucking shower, and being unable to do so is just pissing me off. I feel gross and look even worse. I’m tempted to bite the bullet and just jump into the shower fully clothed with this idiot. “Uh-huh, want to try telling that to your face, little sis?” Ayla says, leaning back against the counter while she waits for her coffee. She looks from Devin, then back to me again, her brows risin

I was dying in my dreams. It was my body, taking revenge on me. I was being punished for trying to kill it, for betraying it. Food didn't stay in my stomach and urine won't stay for a second longer. The white capsules I'm forced to take after meals stay in my throat and no amount of water I drink can flush it down. My hair began to thin out and break, I considered dying it red. Precious thought it was a good idea too. "It would make you look so pretty," she said over the phone.

They were an unnatural, sickly blue-black, spreading in chaotic patterns that made my stomach churn, a grotesque web that looked ready to burst. His jaw twitched as though he was fighting the urge to bite or scream, and his lips were chapped, dry, cracked, and flecked with a strange dark residue. Even his hair, once thick and likely dark, had become patchy, clumps of it torn away, leaving raw patches of irritated skin. His fingernails were jagged and broken, caked with dirt and blood, as if he had clawed his way out of some inescapable prison. There was a stench, too, a vile mixture of rot and something metallic, something that made it difficult to breathe.

The stylists moved with robotic efficiency, their fingers digging into my skin… “Small,” the lead one muttered, scribbling on a tablet. “Malnourished. The skin is dull. We’ll need the chemical peels.” “And the scent,” Tira added, waving a hand in front of her face. “It’s very... diner. Greasy. Cheap.” “I’ve had a shower,” I said. “It’s in your pores, dear,” Tira said. She picked up a lock of my hair and dropped it as if it were soiled. “It’s the smell of failure. Your father had it, too.