A/N: Ch 1- Pre-show. Was tweeting headcanons again, and I'm pretty sure Mapleleaf would have done this just to freak Dippitydoo the frick out. Wow, those line breaks sure look weird... Anyway, I'm feeling remorseful that I didn't upload this earlier. Enjoy!

A Hairy Situation (or, Dipper vs. Mabelocks)

"Ugh, Mabel!"

"Ugh. Mabel!"

"Ugh—Mabel!"

"Mabel! Ughhhh..."

Dipper was quickly growing sick of finding hair everywhere.

It was springtime, and Mabel's majestic mane was shedding again, which meant long, chestnut strands caught up in every imaginable crevice of their California home. No room was safe, least of all their bedroom.

Dipper spent countless hours every week being forced to vacuum, and every single time, the vacuum would overheat and short out, choking on the ochre tufts. Sure, his own hair was unruly, but it was nowhere near as prolific as his twin's, which would geminate more quickly than Dipper thought was humanly possible. And though Mabel was the one who was practically molting, Dipper would invariably be the one tasked with cleaning it all up.

It had been a couple of months since the shedding began, but it was really picking up the closer it got to summer. After picking yet another stray hair out of his teeth (their parents had seen fit to let Mabel cook dinner; he'd coughed up three hairballs before he'd finished his plate of lasagna), Dipper finished washing the dishes and marched down to their shared room, ready to—yet again—give his sister a piece of his mind.

The door flew open, and Dipper burst in, her name on his lips—but the room was empty. She was probably in the backyard, chattering with her friends on the phone. Deflating immediately, the brunet sighed and gathered his toiletries. He could at least take his (daily, despite whatever rumors Mabel had spread) shower while he waited for her to return.

.-./-/-/.-./-../../.-./-../-/.-.

Dipper was livid. He felt like tearing his own hair out, but he settled instead for relentlessly raking his fingers through the wild umber curls. Three minutes into his shower, he'd had to stop and get the drain cleaner before water flooded the room, pouring two bottles' worth down the pipes.

The shower drain was backed up. Again. With. Mabel's. Hair.

The twin stalked out of the bathroom, towel knotted securely around his waist. He'd shower tomorrow. Maybe. His main concern at the moment was chewing out his sister and her disrespectful split ends.

He picked a pair of boxers and a t-shirt (they were clean enough, he figured) off the floor, threw them on, and stomped down the stairs, ready for all of Piedmont to hear the bitching he was about to deliver.

The preteen slammed open the sliding door (and immediately winced as his mother called him out on it). "MABEL—"

The words died on his lips. Stretched out in front of him was Mabel, kicking her legs serenely through the air as she knitted. But not with yarn. No, in front of Mabel lay a gigantic wad of hair the size of his head.

Mabel was knitting a sweater out of her hair. Mabel was knitting a sweater out of her hair.

"Hey, there, bro-bro! What's shakin', bacon?" She looked up after a spell, a sly version of her signature grin in place as she grabbed a hairbrush out of her basket.

"Y-you... You're making a hair sweater." It was intended to be a question, but disgust had flattened his intonation down from alarmed inquiry to blunt surprise.

"Yep!" She cheerily ran the brush through her locks and began picking the resulting loose strands from the bristles, braiding them, tying them together end to end, and wrapping them into the repugnant hairball. Eventually, she started humming some top 40 tune, something about stars and ships and flying? He wasn't quite sure; the sudden bout of tinnitus made it hard to hear anything but the sound of his own horrified whimpers.

Throughout this, Dipper realized he'd been backing away slowly, swallowing back the impending nausea. "Um, Mabel?"

"Uh-huh?" She began knitting again, deliberately avoiding her brother's stare. She seemed distracted—wait. Was that a smirk? Was she smirking?

"N-never mind." He turned tail and hauled ass right back to their room.

.../.-/.../.-/-..-/-././.-./-../-.-.-

The next morning, the young brunet found himself violently sweeping the house, fueled by his revulsion at that—that abomination—Mabel was crafting. He obsessively ran the vacuum through their room, depriving the girl of the material needed to finish her cardigan from hell. Any time his twin brushed her hair, Dipper had to fight the compulsion to burn the instrument and all the evil strands tangled up in its bristles.

A myriad of garbage bags had been filled with the stuff and hauled out to the curb. The Pines parents looked on in dull surprise and slight confusion as their son's newfound fervor for cleaning took hold of their humble abode. And yet, despite the increase in effort spent removing all this hair—

He'd stopped complaining about it altogether.

Mabel snickered to herself and folded the sweater away, putting it within easy reach. It didn't take much to manipulate her brother, and she didn't do it often, but when she did, she always went for the big guns.

She wrapped her hair up and tucked it into Dipper's ratty old baseball cap (she figured she'd cut him a little slack) as she began the lengthy task of packing her things. Her parents had hinted they were going to see their great-uncle next month, and she wanted to make sure she had enough googly eyes to last her the summer-long trip.

After some thought, she took out the sweater and gently placed it into her first suitcase. Just in case.

( morsecode . scphillips . _com_ [slash] translator . html )