She hated it.
Granted, it was entirely her fault for letting it get this bad. She should've listened to Bubbles months ago when she mentioned getting a trim. Hell, she should've listened to Blossom two weeks ago when she told her, point blank, "Get a haircut," but Buttercup had just rolled her eyes and breezed out of the room. What's it to her anyways? Blossom's hair has been nothing short of perfect her whole life.
Well, except for that one time she and Bubbles had royally fucked it up, but that was ancient history now.
As much as Buttercup would hate to admit it, Blossom, like her perfect hair, was always right. Buttercup needed a haircut, and this one had gone terribly wrong.
She tugged on her shortened locks and willed them to grow. When they didn't, she grimaced and let out a sound of frustration. Jeez—she'd been so confident too, telling the hairdresser, "Take off as much as you need," with little more than a disinterested look. But with each snip, snip, snip, Buttercup couldn't help but stare in poorly masked horror—in her lap, on the floor—hair everywhere except on her head where she wanted it to be.
In the end, it came out that weird, in-between length just past the nape of her neck that most girls disliked but Buttercup despised. Now every time she looked in the mirror she was reminded of her childhood—whatever that was. She stared at her hair and couldn't help but remember the dress, the tights, the Mary Janes. She remembered the fighting, the injuries, the loss. It reminded her of a time when she had to be a champion for others rather than a hero for herself. Of a time when she was completely and utterly different, and not in the way that made her admirable or unique, but in the way that made her classmates and neighbors look at her and her sisters like monsters—
But that was ancient history now. Townsville was safe. Her classmates and neighbors thanked her for her bravery, and she and her sisters were free to be normal, superhuman, teenagers that stressed over boys, and grades, and well…bad haircuts.
She turned her head to one side, then the other. She ran her fingers through her hair, once, twice, trying to find just the right placement to help her feel whole again, but—her expression fell—no luck. It was short, too short, and fuck she was gonna look like such a—
Butch! Damn it! He was gonna hate this, too. Buttercup knew better than most that Butch liked girls with long hair and even longer legs—girls like Blossom who were so obviously and effortlessly beautiful that guys would be stupid not to stare. Buttercup had none of that finesse. She had "edges that need smoothing" according to Bubbles, but Buttercup didn't need a self-proclaimed love guru of a sister to know that most guys—most people really—found her hard to swallow.
They can choke on it. She'd think to herself with a scowl and keep walking, but it's not as if she didn't notice how all the guys fawned over her sisters but never gave her a second glance. Butch, Mitch, Lloyd and Floyd saw Buttercup as one of the boys, but one mention of Blossom's bow or Bubbles' pigtails and it was game over. Buttercup was left to mop melted boy off the floor and wonder why they never talked about her like that. Why their eyes never shone at the mention of her name. I mean, hell, that's why she grew her hair out in the first—!
She shook the thought from her head. She was Buttercup. The toughest fighter. She was made to kick ass and take names not…spiral over a boy she can't have and a haircut she'd desperately needed.
She sighed and gave up on the mirror. It was just hair, after all. The shorter hair was better for training, better for fighting, and who knows?
Maybe her Chemical X would make it longer in the morning…