The Gladers had seen him run.
They knew that he was one of the fastest, possibly even the fastest runner of them all, despite Minho being one of the newest Greenies. Perhaps that was why no one objected when Newt suggested making him a Runner. And so a Runner Minho became.
He had been delighted and honoured at the time. From then on, it became not uncommon for Minho to run. And run he did, in the maze. Running to find a way out, avoiding the Grievers, running for his life and all the Gladers'.
But you couldn't blame him for getting tired of running after a while. And one month was all it took. After all, running from dawn to dusk daily, with breaks few and far between, coupled with the fear of being stung by a Griever, was one thing.
His hair was another.
"NEWT! WHAT THE SHUCKING SHUCK DID YOU DO TO MY HAIR, YOU SLINTHEAD?"
The Gladers were awakened by a yell. Rubbing their eyes groggily, some sat up, trying to ascertain the source of the sound. Not many managed to figure it out instantly, for they didn't catch the giggling figure disappear, escaping through the door before the Runner could catch him.
But they all understood when their attention was drawn to Minho rushing to the bathroom, his long fringe neatly braided. Had they had their memories from childhood, some would snigger and call him a "princess". Even from the other side of the large room, there was no mistaking the furious red blush on his cheeks as Minho slammed the bathroom door closed.
Minho was the talk of the town for breakfast, even though he had appeared a good half an hour earlier. His usual hairstyle had been restored - just a long fringe, without the braid. However, the snickers and pointed fingers at him were getting to become too much to bear. Shooting an "I-am-going-to-get-you" look at Newt, who had wisely decided to sit at the opposite end of the table and was trying to avoid Minho's livid gaze, Minho slung his Runner's pack over his shoulder and took off running toward the West Door.
Maybe I should have left that braid instead, Minho started to think after a few hours in the Maze. Sure, his hair was perfect, but it got quite annoying when it kept obscuring his view. More than once, he had suffered abrasions because he couldn't see past his fringe. At least the braid kept the hair out of his way.
Minho could practically hear Newt's smug voice in his head. "What did I tell you? I knew I would be right."
He groaned as he pushed the hair out of his face for the umpteenth time. I seriously need a solution to this problem. Which does not involve braiding my hair. Minho tried to recall his past - what had he used for his hair?
Then it hit him, and he knew what he had to do.
The sun had set, and Minho was the first Runner back from the Maze. Dashing to the Map Room not far away, he grabbed a sheet of paper, but not to get started on his mapmaking duties immediately, of course. Picking up a thin black marker, Minho wrote five words on the pilfered piece of paper, before rushing off to the Box and throwing the scrap in.
The Gladers had never seen Minho look so pleased with himself, five mornings later. It was a special-but-not-too-special day, for it was the morning of the monthly affair where barrels of supplies and a new Greenbean came up.
They exchanged curious glances as they strolled to the Box and saw Minho already eagerly waiting there, bouncing on his toes with anticipation. Never had Minho shown such interest in what - or who - came up in the Box. Yet today seemed to be an extra-special day.
That seemed to be the thoughts of all the other Gladers as they watched Minho leap eagerly into the Box, pulling the large barrels of supplies up. Alby caught sight of his enthusiasm and took a step forward.
"Hey, slow down, Minho! The barrels aren't going to run away, are they?"
As usual, Minho paid zero attention to his passing comment and hoisted himself back on land, before opening up one of the barrels and rummaging through it. Evidently having no luck, he muttered a "shuck it" under his breath and opened up the next barrel.
Then came a yell from the other side of the crowd.
"MINHO! WHAT THE BLOODY HECK IS THIS?"
A bright beam spread across Minho's face as he ran over to where Newt was standing, flabbergasted, holding a jar of clear liquid. The others were confused as to what it is, but Minho wasn't. He shot his trademark sassy smile at Newt as he ripped the note attached to the jar off, and waved it in front of Newt's nose.
For Minho - your hair gel. -The Creators
"Can't you read, Newty? This… is… hair… gel," Minho enunciated each word slowly and clearly, pretending to think that Newt couldn't understand what he was saying.
"But… but… you mean you actually asked the Creators for hair gel?" Newt still seemed to be in shock.
"Yes, why not? This should teach you never to mess with the hair again," came Minho's reply, and everyone was reminded of Minho's braided-fringe incident. But this time, he paid no heed as Minho skipped off to the Homestead, clutching the jar in his hand. Wowing the Gladers. Minho, their resident tough-guy, never skipped. Apparently the hair gel was a big deal for him. And he reappeared a full hour later, hair neatly gelled and styled, complete with the idiotic grin plastered on his face.
This went on for the next few months, with a jar of hair gel for Minho never failing to appear amongst the other supplies. Since then, Minho would become a loyal unloader of supplies, hoping to find his hair gel before Newt did.
And whenever Newt saw him prancing off to the Homestead on those days, with his trusty jar of hair gel in hand, he would sigh and call out, "Make it quick, Minho. Take your bloody bottle of gel and do your bloody personal grooming. I expect you to be at the West Door in thirty minutes sharp."
"Yessiree!" Then would come Minho's exuberant yell.
Needless to say, did Minho follow the second-in-command's orders?
No.
But he still had perfect hair, and that was seemingly all that mattered.