Hair

Sometimes she looked into the mirror and hated her hair.

Hated the color that was so alien, hated the texture the refused to be tamed or cut into anything manageable. Hated the cowlicks that appeared every morning like a nasty stomachache.

No one knew how impossible it was to keep smooth, to keep it from exploding into a puff of red frizz. She washed and conditioned it every day, brushed it as soon as she got up and before she went to bed.

It was burnt, gelled, steamed, pressed, and smooshed into submission for an hour every day before Starfire could even consider appearing in public. And two before she would let Robin see her.

The first night she slept in his room, all she could think about was how to get up earlier than him and fix it.

She opened her eyes the next morning to find him propped on one elbow, mask off, loose t-shirt hanging off his shoulders, staring at her.

Her first instinct was to scream and cover her face with a pillow, or possibly knock him unconscious. All her carefully laid plans, all the hair straighteners and products, ruined.

"So that's what your hair really looks like?" he said with a grin.

Starfire shrank into the sheets.

"I like it this way. It looks like you."

Her relieved hug nearly suffocated him.