Summary: Clarke only wanted a haircut and some highlights to refresh the golden tones of her hair. Just about her luck that her hairdresser has managed to fuck it up.

Notes: So this happened because I tricked one of my favourite writers on tumblr into writing a story about Bellamy cutting his hair (which makes Clarke rather unhappy), which is brilliant by the way, so you should totally read it. And then, I had the idea of turning that let's be real Clarke has awesome hair when the writers let her have it.

Chapter 1: No matter how long I look at it, it's not blonde anymore

Or: Way to fuck with me, universe

All Clarke really wanted was a haircut to trim the split ends of her hair; and some highlights, while she's at it to refresh the golden tones of her naturally blonde curls.

Just about her luck that Roan - her trustful hairdresser friend of many years, award-winning hair artist of the county and master hairdresser of the town - has managed to fuck this up.

Well, to be fair, it wasn't him, but one of the newly hired assistants: Cage.

Cage, who's been in charge of mixing hair colours for the day; including her special hair colour mix - a cocktail of fabulous strawberry blonde with golden highlights.

Roan would have done it himself. He always does it for his special circle of friends. It's not exactly his fault that the salon is a little overbooked. The town is hosting the "97th Annual Ark Harvest Festival" and accompanying beauty pageant, which is taking place this week. Roan is simply the best in the county, and they're fully booked in preparation for that. It's also not Roan's fault that she decided last minute about her beauty trip.

Really. She can only blame herself. So, of course, Roan had to outsource certain tasks, like mixing hair colours. Roan is a man with great hair of his own and nimble fingers, but he's not a magician.

Mixing a hair colour is a simple task if you ask her.

Apparently not for everyone.

And that's why she's sitting in a chair, mouth agape, looking at the reflection of a horrified looking beauty with blue eyes and nougat brown locks and golden highlights. Two words ringing in her head on repeat: You okay?

Later that night

It's not like she can back out of this anymore.

Girl night it is, with Raven at Farm Station, the local pub, where their friend - and her roommate - Monty is bartending every Friday night.

She's a little nervous. Brown is not really her colour, but if she dares to say so she's pulling this off. She'd be lying if she said that she hadn't been in shock before. Because she was. (But Cage had been unceremoniously fired, and Roan hadn't charged her a cent in the end. On a global scale of things it's a win.)

Raven greets her with an appreciative look and for good measure, she also adds a loud wolf-whistle, so she really is feeling okay.

That is until she meets the chocolate brown eyes of her Art History classmate/ arch nemesis/ bicker buddy on the regular, Bellamy Blake.

Objectively speaking he is an attractive guy but that's not why she cannot stop looking at him.

In all honesty, he looks almost tortured - like someone who's been just kicked in the balls - if that pained expression currently plastered on his face is any telling.

"Is he hurt?" she lets the words slip.

On a second thought … he looks tortured, sure, but this is something else.

There's this fire in his eyes which reminds her of the fire he wears in class and that she loves. If she's being honest that's part of his charm. The fire is there but not the same, not quite. The fire he wears now is … well, it's different.

Raven follows her line of sight and starts to laugh almost instantly.

"Yeah, hurt. Totally, babe."

She doesn't get it, but okay. Raven sometimes is weird. Like the time when she had openly voiced her speculation about her feelings, namely, that Clarke had a thing for Bellamy Blake. In the middle of a Pungu Mayurasana*, nonetheless, which had left her falling on her face, hard. What makes it worse, though… Raven's not exactly wrong, but she's not going to tell her that.

It's nothing more than a tiny crush. Tiny like a pinch of salt. Nothing big. It's mostly a physical attraction. A stupid infatuation for Bellamy Blake and his stupid freckles. And for Bellamy Blake in those stupid flannel shirts she's seen him wearing in class on occasion. (Like the one he's wearing right now.)

She furrows her brows at the sight.

Unfairly gorgeous.

She shakes her head, which she hopes Raven doesn't notice on top of things.

This thing is temporary. She needs to get laid, that's all, she reasons, and this thing will go away. Because it's been a while. To be honest, from this angle, his hair looks outright stupid. All messed up and sexy, but stupid.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the pub

Miller is waiting for his drink order with Bellamy in tow. He's pretty distracted by the smiling bartender on the other side of the counter - an Asian boy with pretty dark eyes and sleek, dark hair falling into said eyes. He has to shove it back with the back of his hand or tilt his head to the side from time to time. Miller watches in silent wonder the movement, and if his eyes settle on the vein running along his neck (or on his arm) he cannot help himself. It's a nice view. It could be weird, but he is single and what's the harm. He's seen the guy here before and they chatted a few times.

The bartender laughs. He swears to all gods in heaven and hell, that's the best smile he's seen in years. A smile that makes him smile.

Something unexpected but not unwelcome is blooming inside his chest; definitely not something he's predicted happening so soon.

The warmth is settling deep into his belly, his heart giving those short but rapid, happy kicks.

He's man enough to recognise the signs of a crush. Why deny it?

And that's when his focus is drawn away from hot bartender guy by a huff. It's coming from the man beside him, his best friend, Bellamy Blake. The loser.

He doesn't have to ask. Not really, he knows exactly what this is about. Regardless, his eyes follow Bellamy's to the other corner of the bar, and hell if he wasn't right. He's looking at Clarke Griffin, or the "fucking Princess" or the "the Princess with the stupid hair", as Bellamy quite often refers to her in his stories.

Humor me, universe, he thinks.

Because he's willing to eat his beanie, right here and right now if this is not about Bellamy's stupid crush on Clarke Griffin. Or about the very fact that she's dyed her once golden locks to this chestnut-like brown.

"What now?" he asks in his most unimpressed voice.

"Nothing," Bellamy gruffs. But then he must think better of it, seeing his Humor me, Blake expression. So he signals with his chin to the direction of Clarke, who's chatting with a tall brunette.

"Look at that," he huffs.

For anyone else, his tone might sound filled with mockery, especially with the accompanying huff he heaves again. Miller knows him better than anyone else.

"It's Clarke Griffin."

"Tell me something I don't know," Bellamy adds with a grumble.

"She dyed her hair."

"Exactly! How stupid is that?!"

"You mean…. " Miller teases, with (maybe) way too much merriment in his voice. Because as entertaining as it is to watch Bellamy pining after Clarke Griffin, it's way more fun to tease him about it in public. "Stupider than her stupid Princess hair ?"

"Oh, shut up!" Bellamy says, nudging him with his elbow.

The hot bartender hands over their drink, followed by a wink.

Miller starts laughing, Bellamy grumbles a little more, but all he can really think of is: What a wonderful night ahead.

x x x

Not two minutes later, they are on their way, drinks in hand, heading towards that side of the bar. Because he's a good friend.

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*Pungu Mayurasana, or the Wounded Peacock is a complicated yoga pose, fya

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End notes: First time doing a Miller POV. Was it okay?