Title: Natural Hairsasters
Author: brista
Rating: T
Characters: Wendy, The Middleman
Summary: Disasters made of hair.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, no infringement is intended, etc., etc.
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She's a low-drama kind of girl. Four aliens with a case of intergalactic car sickness barfed all over her – simultaneously – and other than threatening to take a half-day and scrubbing down for forty-five minutes in the shower, she lived to tell the tale. She isn't shallow either – she always comes home bedraggled and exhausted and she usually doesn't have time to fix herself up before Tyler comes over. She rolls with the punches. So she can't put her finger on why she's having trouble rolling with this punch. She never would have guessed that an unfortunate run-in with Lacey's Gross Bucket would be her downfall.
A Google search and a frenzied, tearful phone call to her mother had resulted in several ideas for getting the rat's nest off her head, none of which had worked. Two and a half hours, a widetooth comb, two bottles of conditioner, a hair pick, a tablespoon of peanut butter, and an expensive bottle of detangling serum (that, for the record, was not certified vegan just because it was sold in a recycled bottle, Lacey made sure to mention before snatching the drugstore bag from Tyler) later, Wendy bites the bullet.
"Get the scissors."
The next morning, she wears a hat on her head. It's knitted out of unbleached, organic, sweatshop-and-cruelty-free hemp, created during Lacey's crafty phase in college and every stitch, she is repeatedly assured by Lacey, was stitched with love and positive energy and she is just about guaranteed to have a good day if she's wearing it.
The building is always set at a precise 68.8°F ("That's 21°C, Dubbie.") and the cool air floods across her body as she walks in. She might be able to make it through the day, so long as they don't have to leave. She also has a good chance of surviving if there's a sudden snow storm. All things considered, there is a very good possibility for a freak blizzard and she's really holding out for that one.
"Well, hello there, Santa's little helper." Wendy's hand reaches up to cover fuzzy pompoms on the end of the tassels but then remembers there's a hat on her head and there isn't much she can do to cover that up. Ida's eyes twinkle (or maybe she's just short-circuiting). "Is your stash under there?"
She dodges the rest of Ida's comments by scurrying towards the locker room. She swings open the heavy wooden door then leans against it. She's going to die, she's pretty sure, if a sweatshop-and-cruelty-free wig doesn't magically appear in her locker. She pulls the knit hat further down her face until her eyes are covered. Deep breaths. Give me down-to-there hair, she had remarked to Noser as she got on the elevator this morning.
"Are you feeling okay, Dubbie?" His voice makes her jump and she peeks out from under the hat. His hands are busy with his tie but his attention is undividedly hers.
"Fine." She hadn't gotten much sleep after the tragic hair debacle. All that tugging and pulling on her hair knots had left her with a major headache.
"Hm." He sits down on the bench and reaches down for his shoes. She's still glued to the door. There's got to be a Delorian stored somewhere in the Middlegarage. All she's got to do is get her hands on some plutonium.
"It's probably not my place to judge a fellow Middleassociate's wardrobe choice, but I have to say…" He glances up from the shoe he has been tying with impressive concentration. "It is the middle of an August heat wave, Dubbie. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
A bead of sweat rolls down her forehead and slides down her nose before shimmying across her upper lip and high-diving off the bottom of her chin. "I'm just…a little cold," she lies. She really wishes she'd stop taking Lacey's advice on beauty care and personal hygiene because that hops-based deodorant isn't doing a thing to stop the dampness spreading under her arms.
"I can adjust the thermostat if you'd like," he offers.
"No!" She tries to quickly hide the panic on her face and covers with, "No. No, thank you, but I wouldn't…I mean, it's fine." Yeah, real smooth, Watson. The jig is up now.
He leans back against the wall, obviously contemplating the meaning behind her not-so-nonchalant reaction. "If you have a problem, Dubbie, I'd be glad to discuss it with you."
Of course he would be. He is always so reasonable, consistently bent on 'talking things out' instead of dealing with things like any sane man by ignoring the situation entirely and changing the subject. That concerned look on his face tells her she won't be getting out of the locker room with her hat on.
"There was…an accident," she starts. An accident is one way of putting it. Tyler had also gallantly described it as, among other things, a hairnado and a hairvalanche.
She had seriously considered dumping him for that last one alone.
"Are you okay? What's happened?" He's at her side immediately, waiting for her to say something, checking her over for broken bones and blood.
"Not that kind of accident. Calm down, Mom." She slides past from him and sits down on the bench. "Lacey has a bucket," she starts. "The Gross Bucket. Corn starch, vegan glue, food dye, wax, tar. The usual…Gross Bucket…stuff."
"I'm not following."
"It was on the work table. I knocked over a container of marbles." Hundreds and hundreds of tiny marbles that had been gathered for a performance art piece promoting peace. "Love is like a marble, Dub-Dub. You send one flying, you never know who's going to catch it," she quotes Lacey. The Middleman nods sagely, as if Lacey's proclamation makes the least bit of sense.
Underneath the table, crawling on all fours gathering Lacey's love, Wendy had smacked the top of her head against the table. "When I was crawling out from under the table…I caught the bucket. My hair, actually, did most of the catching."
"That explains the hat." He's pretty good at putting the pieces together. He must be a dream to break up with. We should talk, the girl probably says and he probably says, I understand where you're going with this and he probably has the politest, most hospitable splits in the history of breaking up. Probably even buys them dinner after and lets them keep all the jewelry without being an a-hole about it.
"That does." The bottom of her tank top clings against her stomach, plastered against her with sweat, and she pulls at it. She's gonna have a heat stroke if she keeps her unbleached, organic, sweatshop-and-cruelty-free hemp knitted hat on much longer. She toys with the pompoms tassels. "Promise you won't laugh?"
He smiles and folds his arms across his chest. "Cross my heart."
She isn't sure if she believes him but she hasn't got much to lose now. A girl starts to run out of options when there's a pool of sweat at the back of her underwear. The hat comes off. She drops it in her lap and awkwardly smoothes out her new ridiculously short hair cut.
"Well, how-dee." He grins at her.
"I said don't laugh!"
"Vidal Sassoon, Dubbie, I'm not laughing. It looks nice." She rolls her eyes. She starts to pull the hat back over her head – and decides she'll pull it all the way down to her chin this time – when he takes the hat away from her. "Do you always roll your eyes when someone pays you a compliment?"
"Only when they're full of –"
"Dubbie." She glares at him and almost finishes her sentence anyway when he says, "I think it suits you."
She walks over to one of the sinks and studies her hair in the mirror. "It's lopsided. Lacey closed her eyes before she started hacking."
"Lacey! We can't both close our eyes!" she screeched.
"You're going to hate it – I can't do this! Tyler, you do it!" Lacey screeched right back and shoved the scissors at him.
"Oh, uh-uh, no way. I'm not getting involved in this haircanic eruption!" Tyler replied.
"Would you quit comparing my hair to natural disasters?! Jesus!" Wendy looked at all three of them, hoping for someone to step up and get the disgustingly gross bucket slop out of her hair. "Somebody has to do it. I can't do it because – and I don't know if the three of you are aware of this fact or not – but actually, as it turns out, as a matter of fact, I do not have eyes in the back of my head so that makes this whole thing a little more diff–"
"Just relax, Dubster. We'll get this hairvalanche shoveled up."
She swung around to face him, ready for a knock-down, drag-out fight. "Seriously, Tyler, I swear to god, one more Weather Channel reference and I'm going gangster on –"
"You said it was funny!"
"I didn't say it was funny and even if I had said it was funny –"
"You di –"
" – it stops being funny after you've said it four thousand times!"
"Hey, Wendy Watson. I'll do it," Noser volunteered, reaching for the scissors in Lacey's hand.
"No!" Wendy and Lacey yelled simultaneously. He shrugged and went back to leaning against the bathroom doorway.
"It's nice, Dubbie."
She pulls her bangs forward until a curtain of hair covers her eyes. Maybe if she doesn't have to see it…maybe she can just hide out under here until it grows out.
"Long hair can be a liability on the job," he offers. Always trying to be positive.
"Yeah, says the guy who doesn't have the same haircut as his boyfriend." Well…not exactly the same, but too close to be anything except a nine out of ten on the creepy and weird scale
"Well, now, that's just rude. You've never even asked what my boyfriend's hair looks like."
Her mouth drops open and she turns around to face him. Well, look who's making a joke now.
He grins. "Congratulations. Now you know you're capable of focusing on something other than your haircut for three seconds. You'll be just hunky-dory, Dubbie."
"I will not be just hunky-dory. You're belittling the pain of my experience! A jumpy vegan attacks your head with a sharp object and you just let me know how well you deal with it. And let me know how it goes when your boyfriend announces that you should batten down the hatches because a hairnami is coming in off the coast."
"Hairnami?"
Wendy sighs and leans against the sink basin. "A tsunami made of hair."
He stands in front of her, studying her hair. "The situation was less than ideal for a dramatic change in hairstyle, I concur, but after a few days, it will start to grow on you. I like it already."
"You do have eyes, right? And they're working okay?"
He shrugs and heads back towards his locker. "I prefer a short haircut on a woman."
Her hands reflexively move to her hair. Well, that's a new revelation. She figured he'd be into, like, old-fashioned ass-long Rapunzel hair or something. "For real?"
He gives her an arrogant boyish grin as he sits back down on the bench. That's probably the most he's volunteered about his personal life since – well, since ever, pretty much. "I'm sorry to get your hopes up, Dubbie. Short hair or no, you aren't exactly my type."
She wrinkles her nose. "I didn't mean it like that and you know it. I mean – you have a type?"
"I'd say most people tend to find themselves attracted to partners possessing similar qualities, wouldn't you agree?" They had carefully avoided the topic of the mysterious "Other Love" for the past month but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't at least a little curious to find out who had managed to get under his skin. Well, technically, she had carefully avoided the topic; it wasn't like he was bursting at the seams to spill his guts while they hunted down Wereferrets in the Middlemobile.
"What's your type?"
He chuckles. "We have work to do today, Dubbie."
"Unless a redball comes in, we both know I'm just here to study the Intergalactic Code of Ethics. Seriously, what's your type?"
"You needn't be so dismissive about it. It's vital that you understand how I.C.E. works."
"Water plus freezer equals ice. I got it. Don't change the subject."
"You may find I.C.E. humorous now, but you won't be laughing when you've been captured and held hostage by a band of extraterrestrial warhawks. Pacta sunt servanda, Dubbie."
She sits on the bench beside him and faces him. He's so clean-cut that it's hard to imagine him dating anyone ever. She'd tag him as the Middlepriest if it weren't for those mysterious and probably not-so-naïve Navy S.E.A.L. years. She's always been into shaggy-haired skinny guys that could wear her jeans, but some women would be all about those S.E.A.L. muscles so it's not like it would be impossible for him to find a date. "Blondes, right?"
"You need to know your rights before there is a reason to assert them in front of the General Assembly Court of Justice in the United Galaxies." He gives her a decisive nod and strolls towards the door.
Walking out in the middle of a conversation is so rude – he always throws a hissy fit when she does that to him. "Hey, come on, tell me and –" Maybe she's a little evil to pick on him, but really, he's totally asking for it, being all evasive and walking out the door. " – I'll set you up with some short-haired blonde with a black belt and big boobs who's into S&M and threesomes!"
"Sweet Sigmund Freud, Dubbie!" His normally unflappable demeanor disappears for just a moment when his eyes widen. Gotcha, Bossman. The tips of his ears are turning red and she knows that's his first sign of ultimate embarrassment. "This is a workplace, not a brothel!"
She grins and doesn't mention that a brothel is a workplace, too. "What? I'm just trying to help! I wasn't judging your preferences."
"I don't think I like where this conversation is headed and we've got Section 119A Paragraph 2C of Title 17 to work on today so get changed and meet me in the third floor library in ten."
"Fine, but let me ask you something –"
"Is your question acceptable in a professional work environment?"
She snaps her mouth closed and bites back a smile. He wasn't going to answer her question about sexy librarians anyway.
"I thought not. I understand that you are just trying to goad me, but I would appreciate it if we could discontinue this conversation on a permanent basis."
She snorts. Discontinue this conversation on a… "Okay, let me ask you this: is that the way you talk to women? Because I think I just discovered the root of your girl problem right there."
"I don't have a 'girl problem,' Dubbie, and frankly, the only problem I have right now is a Middleassociate problem. My coworker is refusing to extend the basic courtesy of respect after I requested that she not discuss such matters at this juncture."
It really isn't fair that he knows everything about her and she knows next to nothing about him. She knows the important stuff, sure, like the fact that he'll always have her back even when she (purposely) pisses him off, but still. It's not exactly equal opportunity secret-sharing around here. "Fine." She pulls her locker open and grabs a stick of real antiperspirant – filled with parabens, aluminum, and animal cruelty but at least she won't smell like a gorilla.
"Excellent. I'll be in the library. I think you'll find Section 119A Paragraph 2C of Title 17 is much more interesting than Section 119A Paragraph 2B of Title 17." He leaves the room as she pulls her sweaty tank top off and trades it for a crisp white Middleshirt.
"Yeah, I heard that Paragraph 2C is a laugh-riot. I'm riveted already," she mumbles to the empty room. The haircut isn't so bad if she squints. Maybe she'll end up liking it. She picks up her unbleached, organic, sweatshop-and-cruelty-free hemp knitted hat from the bench where he had placed it. She likes low-drama in her own personal life, but she's really itching to set up some drama in his.