The Tardis materialized in Clara's living room, and the Doctor swung the door open.
"So I got your texts. All twenty-three of them," he called, stepping out of the blue box. "And the thirty-seven voice messages."
No sign of Clara. TV was off. He absently ran his fingers over her bookcase, and continued on out into corridor. "Sorry for not getting here sooner. Busy fixing the Oscila sprocket on the Tardis. She's okay now."
The Doctor glanced into the empty kitchen. Still no Clara. He strode down the corridor, and opened a couple of doors at random. A linen closet. A toilet.
"Clara? Where are you?"
"In here!" came a familiar, yet somewhat strangled, voice from somewhere opposite the living room.
The Doctor pushed open the door, which led him into Clara's bedroom.
"Um, hello. Is everything ok?" He checked the room. Everything seemed to be normal. Floral bedspread. White rocking chair. Fern on the windowsill.
"No, Doctor. Everything is most definitely not ok!"
Clara herself was seated on the stool in front of her triplex mirror. She wore a bathrobe, and had a towel wrapped around her head. The Doctor didn't need his cards to realise that she was mad. Uh oh. What was wrong? Was it something he'd done?
"Well, what's the matter?"
Clara drummed her fingers on her dressing table. "Remember our little adventure three days ago? When you took me to that planet with those aliens with the enormous noses?"
"The Lurgians? Of course. We found that nice tea shop."
"And remember when that alien sneezed on me?"
"Yes." It had been sleeting. Clara had tripped over on a particularly slippery bit of pavement while stepping backwards to admire a Lurgian temple. They'd then decided to find a warm place to have a spot of tea and a scone. The waiter, poor chap, had had a nasty cold.
"And I got covered in its… it's stuff?"
"Yes." The 'stuff' had been very copious indeed, and at the time, he had mentally congratulated himself for restraining himself from chuckling at the sight of Clara covered in it. The waiter had been most apologetic, and had offered them a twenty percent discount off their next visit for the inconvenience, but Clara just wanted to leave.
Clara's voice raised to a shrill pitch. "And you said: 'Don't worry, Clara. It'll be fine. Just a bit of alien phlegm. You can wash it off once you get home'."
"Er, yes." He wasn't quite sure where this was going.
Clara sprang to her feet. "Well, it wasn't fine, Doctor. I took a shower after you dropped me off, but the next morning I woke up and..." She reached up with her left arm and unwound the towel from her head. "Look at this!"
The Doctor looked. What was he supposed to be seeing? Face – still sort of wide. Eyes – very big right now. Nose – rather tilted and funny. Hair – green. The mouth… Oh. Hold on. The hair.
"Your hair."
"Yes. Just look at the colour!"
The Doctor wasn't sure what to say. Was she fishing for a compliment?
"Um, it matches your pot plant."
Clara wadded up the towel and hurled it at his head. He caught it, blinking.
"My hair is bright green, Doctor, and I can't fix it. I've tried washing it with every shampoo and conditioner I have, but nothing works. I've even tried dyeing it back to brown, but it almost seems to be repelling the dye."
"Hmm." The Doctor put his Sonic Sunglasses on and scanned Clara. Now that was interesting.
"Now that is interesting."
"What?" Clara demanded instantly.
He removed the glasses. "It seems that the Lurgians have a symbiotic relationship with another species. Not sure, but I suspect it's the Microflox. Tiny airborne aliens. I've read about them before. I'm guessing that the Microflox live in the nasal cavities of the Lurgians. And when our waiter sneezed, it seems millions of them were expelled, and landed in your hair."
"I have aliens in my hair?" yelped Clara. She raked her fingers through her hair, hopping from one foot to the other. "Get them out!"
"Ah, now that won't be so easy," said the Doctor. "You see, Microflox like to bond to hair. Especially the head hair of particular species, which it appears, includes human hair. Clara, every single strand of your hair is covered in them – that's why it looks green. But really, it's just the Microflox, clumped together. But the good news is, the life cycle of a Microflox isn't so long. Eventually they'll die and fall off. Your hair will get back to normal."
Clara took a deep breath, as though trying to calm herself. "Okay. Well, that's good, I suppose. How long will that take?"
"About a year."
"A year?"
"Give or take."
"Doctor, I can't wait a year!" cried Clara. "I've called in sick to work these last couple of days, but tonight is Parent/Teacher Night at the school. I need to be there, and I can't go looking like this."
"You can't just let the Microflox live in your hair?"
"No, Doctor."
"They're harmless, you know. They won't attack you. Or anyone else."
Clara folded her arms. "Out of the question."
He sighed. Humans could be so conservative. "Very well. We'll have to get them out."
"Thank you," said Clara. "Hang on – I won't have to shave my head, will I?"
"No, Clara. There is another solution. Quite literally. There's a lotion that affects these creatures – causes their muscles to relax. You put that through your hair, just like shampoo." He mimed soaping his own bouffant grey hair. "The Microflox will let go and fall out. Your hair will be back to normal again."
"Okay. Where do we get this lotion?" Clara's eyes darted over him, as if he were hiding it on his person.
The Doctor hesitated. "It's made by the Spargans on the planet Estoll." He inwardly winced. The Spargans had fangs, and tended to be rather bite-y.
"Great, let's go."
"No." He would be quicker alone, and he considered that Clara had had enough adventures for one week. "You wait here. I'll go."
He disappeared down the corridor, and within seconds, Clara heard the Tardis dematerialize. She flung herself onto her bed, slightly calmer. Okay. There was a lotion. The Doctor was getting it. Everything would be all right. It had to be. Green hair might be amazingly cool when you were sixteen, but not if you were a twenty-nine year old English teacher.
No point in dwelling on it. To pass the time, she opened one of her favourite childhood books – 'A Wrinkle in Time'. She'd just started on Chapter Three when she heard the familiar wheezing sound coming from her living room. Seconds later, the Doctor stood in her doorway, slightly breathless, and with a slash across the shoulder of his coat, but holding a small orange bottle.
"Are you ok? Are you hurt? Is that it?"
"Yes, no, and yes," said the Doctor. He handed Clara the bottle and she beamed.
"Thank you, Doctor!"
She started walking towards her bathroom, but the Doctor held up his hand.
"Wait. You're not just going to use it in the shower, are you?"
Clara raised her eyebrows. "Why not? That's usually where I wash my hair, Doctor."
"Clara, these are living creatures!" The Doctor's voice was indignant. "They're innocent. You can't just let them be swept down a drain into your primitive smelly sewer system. They'll perish."
"Honestly?" exclaimed Clara. She just wanted to get those things out of her hair. Who bloody cared if a bunch of tiny green bugs were flushed away?
Then she looked at the Doctor, her best friend, the Time Lord who just wanted to be a good man; and she immediately felt guilty. The Doctor cared. He was right. The bugs had done nothing wrong.
"What then?"
"Wait here." The Doctor dashed down her corridor again, and she heard him rummaging around inside the Tardis. He returned with an armful of hosepipes and a large plastic tub. "Where's your bathroom?"
She watched, tapping her feet, as the Doctor crouched under her vanity cabinet. She heard the whirr of the Sonic Sunglasses as he tinkered away. Eventually he emerged, holding one end of a hosepipe.
"I've diverted your pipes to this hose," he explained. "All you need to do is pop your head under the tap and give it a wash with the Spargan lotion. The Microflox will go down the plughole," he pointed downwards, and made a gurgling sound, "and we'll catch them in this tub." He placed the end of the hosepipe into the tub.
Clara looked at the basin anxiously. It was deep enough, but she'd never tried washing her own hair over a sink before. She suspected her bathroom was likely to get rather soggy before she was done. Still, it couldn't be helped. She automatically reached for the lotion with her right arm, and winced at the jolt of pain that shot through her body. She quickly turned the wince into a cough, hoping the Doctor hadn't noticed.
"Clara? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she quickly lied.
"Tell me."
"It's nothing, really."
"Lift your arm above your head."
"Why should I? I'm fine!" said Clara.
"You can't, because it hurts. What happened?"
She looked into the Doctor's eyes, steely blue and narrowed with concern.
"Okay, you remember how I took a spill outside that temple? I must have sprained my shoulder. It should be ok in a few days. No big deal, right?"
"That's going to make it difficult for you to remove the Microflox"
"I still have one working arm." Clara raised her left arm and ventured a smile.
The Doctor did not return it. He strode out of the bathroom and returned with the stool from her bedroom. He set it down firmly in front of the basin.
"Sit. I'll wash your hair."
Clara's eyebrows shot up. Okay, not an offer she would have expected from the Doctor. The thought of his hands in her hair made her blush. "Doctor, I can manage, really."
He folded the towel and set it against the edge of the basin, as padding. "Clara, you are injured, and we need to get all of these Microflox out of your hair and into this tub. This is the most expedient way."
Cautiously, Clara sat on the stool and leaned back against the basin. The Doctor must have Sonic'ed the stool, because it felt amazingly comfortable beneath her, supporting her entire body. Suddenly, she felt vulnerable, sitting there in only a bathrobe, her throat exposed and her hair fanned out in the basin. What if the lotion didn't work? What if the Doctor just made her hair look worse (after all, he was a time traveler, not a hair dresser)? Could the Doctor even handle washing someone else's hair? Extended touch was not one of his strong points.
She turned her head. He had hung his coat over the hook on the door, and was rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie jumper.
"Doctor…" she began, but the Doctor turned the tap, and her voice was lost beneath the hiss of the water. A jet hit her scalp, freezing cold, and she stifled a shriek.
"Sorry, sorry," said the Doctor. She heard the whirr of the Sonic Sunglasses, and instantly, the water was warm; the perfect temperature. He sloshed handfuls of it over her head, wetting it to the scalp, resting the edge of his other hand against her forehead to prevent any wayward drops from dribbling down her face.
When her hair was fully soaked, the Doctor opened the bottle of Spargan lotion. Clara tilted her head slightly and watched as he tipped some of the ochre coloured liquid into his palm. Immediately, the bathroom filled with the aroma of… what was that? A lovely fresh, earthy smell, like the rain on dry soil!
"Petrichor," the Doctor said. "One of the best smells in the universe."
"I've never had a shampoo that smelt like that before," said Clara.
The Doctor snorted. "Human shampoos. All chemicals and fruity scents. Why anyone wants their head to smell like banana and loganberry is beyond me." He rubbed his hands together, spreading the lotion around. "Lie back."
Clara obeyed, feeling her heart beat a little faster. Her view of the ceiling was blotted out by the Doctor leaning over her, close enough for her to count the holes in his jumper. She felt his hands descending into her hair. His fingers – long and supple – were surprisingly gentle, rubbing her scalp, working the lotion into a lather. It felt… really good. The pads of his fingers traced brisk little circles, from her hairline down to the nape of her neck, then back up again. Clara sighed softly and closed her eyes, breathing in the Petrichor scent, and listening to the faint squeak of the Doctor's boots on the tiles as he shifted position.
Then his hands slowed, the movements becoming more intense. His thumbs kneaded her temples in a way that made her feel like she'd never have another headache again, while his fingers massaged behind her ears. The Doctor then glided his fingers through her hair. Clara felt the slight tug as he worked the lotion into the ends, before moving back to her scalp. Clara's entire head tingled. She could fall asleep right here, Parent/Teacher Night be damned. This was so…
"Relaxing…" said the Doctor, from what sounded like a long distance away.
"Oh, it certainly is," breathed Clara.
"No, Clara, the Microflox are relaxing their grip. They're coming loose. The lotion must be working!"
She opened her eyes, but from her current angle, all she could see was the Doctor's armpit. "Thank god."
"I'll wash it out now," said the Doctor, and Clara closed her eyes once more, enjoying the sensation of the warm water over her head, and the Doctor's hands raking and squeezing her hair. From below, she heard the gurgle of water, soft and soothing, as it exited down the hosepipe into the tub.
"Microflox coming down," said the Doctor, his voice triumphant. "Must be like a big water slide for them."
"So my hair's turning back to its normal colour?" asked Clara.
"See for yourself," replied the Doctor. He turned off the tap. Clara sat up, feeling some drops trickle down her back.
"Easy," said the Doctor. He took the towel, shook it out, and used it to gently squeeze the excess water from her hair. "It's not dry yet, but I think-"
The mirror was steamed over. Clara stood, grabbed the towel from his hand, and wiped a spot clear. Oh thank heavens! Her hair was still moist, but back to its usual brown colour. She beamed.
"Thank you, Doctor. For getting the lotion and for the hair wash."
He flashed one of his quick, yet warm, smiles. "Don't mention it."
"I should really go and get ready," Clara said, dabbing at her head with the towel. "But don't leave until I come out."
"Yes, boss."
The Doctor reconnected Clara's basin pipes, and picked up the tub, which was now full of goopy green water. "Time to find you lot a safe planet."
He carried the tub into the Tardis, and reemerged just as Clara stepped into the living room. His eyes widened. She wore dark stockings, a navy, knee-length skirt, and a silk blouse with patterns of tiny leafs. The ensemble was completed with a dash of coral lipstick. She looked… intelligent and classy and rather fetching.
"How do I look?"
He shrugged. "Like a teacher."
She laughed. "Well, that's a good thing. But my hair! Look at it."
Clara's hair was smooth and shiny, with the ends twisted into sleek curls.
"Ah, that would be the secretions from the Microflox."
"The… secretions?"
"Yeah." He wasn't sure how much detail she wanted – for example, which orifice the secretions came from – so he kept the explanation brief. "When they release their grip, the Microflox emit a kind of secretion. Rather like avocado oil. Although I've never trusted avocados. They're too mushy and ruin a chicken sandwich. But it's perfectly harmless, and very good for the hair."
"I love it," said Clara. "Wish I could bottle it. But now I really have to go. See you next Wednesday, then?"
"Next Wednesday it is."
The Doctor watched as Clara left. Overall, it had been a rather interesting evening. Time to patch up his coat where the Spargan fang had ripped it (he shuddered at the memory of that close call) and find a home for the Microflox. He flexed his hands and smiled at the memory of them in Clara's hair. She had enjoyed that part, no doubt. He decided he would have to take Clara back to the Lurgian planet one day. Preferably during flu season.