Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or its characters; all are the exclusive property of Butch Hartman and Nickelodeon.
He dashes into the handicapped stall of the gas station bathroom and drops his duffel bag onto the linoleum tile. He stares into the mirror, ignoring the phone numbers scribbled hastily onto the glass, observing his tired reflection. He recounts the events of the past days; the hitchhike back to Earth on the STS-132 in Cape Canaveral, the mad dash back home to his leveled mansion to recover lost belongings and necessities while the area remained heavily guarded by a division of the Guys in White, the quick stop at a random ATM to funnel out any savings before they had an opportunity to freeze his account, and the long, tedious flight out of the patrolled perimeter to land here, on the outskirts of suburban Denver; all while dejectedly glaring down his exhausted reflection.
He looks weary, weak, broken; a man tossed about by the media and left to rot in the eyes of the civilians that had once trusted him, and those who had watched from around the globe as he single-handedly made one of the worst mistakes in his entire life (one, but definitely not the one; he's attributed that title to another grave error from his past).
And now, here he stands, forced to break away and begin a new life from the ground up, if he can. One of the wealthiest, most refined, idolized men in the world, now reduced to being on the run from the government, from his aquaintences, from everyone, like some common criminal.
Taking a deep breath, he begins to rummage through the bag and pulls out a can of shaving cream and a disposable razor, along with a medium-sized single blade. He sets the three on the sink's edge and starts to run the water. Applying the shaving cream, he warily picks up the razor and hesitates before pressing it against his cheek and stroking down. Three minutes later, water splashes from the basin as he washes off the excess. He takes a few half-hearted glances at the mirror, returning his attention to the sink when he realizes he cannot yet bear to acknowledge the drastic change in his appearance. So it comes as no surprise that the next move will be even harder for him.
Shakily, he picks up the blade. His hand trembles as he brings it up closer, looking unsteadily at the mirror, as if he will garner a sceond opinion from his reflection.
He takes another deep breath and slowly brings his free hand up to grab his silver ponytail. A beat passes.
Hissing, he brings up the blade and slices through the red elastic band holding it all together, and, putting forced pressure on it, cuts through the entire ponytail, feeling its weight in his left hand, separated from the back of his head.
He brings it into his view, looking down at it as if it's some foreign object instead of just a bunch of fine, silvery hairs. He wraps it in what little left of the toilet paper he can find and tosses it into the trash, figuring one would have a hard time explaining the presence of a bare silver ponytail in the bin should they come across it.
Stuffing the grooming items back into his bag, he zips up and stands up at full height to face his reflection one last time. He begrudgingly admits to himself that the changes had to be made; the goatee and ponytail combo might have paired well with the 'man of wealth and taste' air, but would have seemed strange and creepy with his current appearance.
All in all, he thinks he can pull the disguise off.
He barely recognizes himself.