A/N: This was taken from a tumblr prompt "12 has let his hair grow far too long and Clara decides it's time for a haircut!"

1249 words; I actually got pretty excited about this because I had a very certain image that I wanted to write; although this also insinuates that Twelve's hair got so long in s10 because Clara wasn't around, and that makes me sad (though let's be real: the best s10 characters had the most hair… so… yeah…); I've had such a shitty week and it's only Thursday so here I am in my happy place posting fic


Why the Long Hair?

It had started fairly short, this incarnation's hair. As Clara had sat at his bedside in Paternoster Row, she would hold his hand and stroke his hair, somehow shorn and grey compared to what he'd just had. She sat there in thought and worry as he slept, wondering if he was alright.

Time Lord biology—if one can still apply the word and be truthful—was a bit more complicated than that, she quickly learned. It was about building a new prototype upon the existing model, using what he'd learned beforehand to become better. She remembered him having to move his hair out of his eyes rather a bit when it was floppy and brown, so maybe that was part of it? Possibly, since he also seemed to have far more eyebrow than prior as well. Whatever it was, she didn't mind, as long as it wasn't a sign things had gone awry. She liked the look of it anyhow… it somehow felt a little more glamorous with the look of his grey hair and sharp suit on the Orient Express, and try as he might, as sweet and loving and supportive and handsome as he had been, there was no sense of glamour that Danny brought to the table.

So it had been a while since Wednesdays had turned into more than a single day of the week—but it also wasn't most days either—before Clara noticed how wild the Doctor's hair was becoming. It was turning into nearly a mane, and she wondered how long he was going to let it grow.

"Time Lords don't have to worry about their hair as often as Humans do," he claimed one day. He was preening in the mirror, readying for their return trip on the Occident Tourister. It was taking a few too many swipes of a product-filled comb for his hair to stay flat for her comfort.

"You look like a sleazy orchestra conductor with hair like that," she quipped. "It reminds me of my granddad and his Brylcreem."

"I thought you liked my hair like this anyhow," he noted.

"What's the point of it being so long that you need product to keep it in place? It's no good for the pillowcases."

"Just the pillowcases?"

She stared at him flatly, unimpressed. "You know what I mean."

He knew for certain when she didn't so much as touch his hair for the entire trip.


"I think it's about time you cut your hair."

It was a lazy day in, with takeaway on the table and a DVD playing some movie they'd both seen multiple times. Her fingers were in his hair and playing with it gently as he used her torso for a pillow.

"Didn't all you want is for it to just be free of product?" he reminded her.

"Doesn't mean it's not getting to a point."

He grumbled and attempted to adjust himself into a more comfortable position. His legs were hanging over the side of the couch, dangling almost comically in a way that stretched him out in just the wrong directions. Eventually he simply crammed his legs in between his own body and the armrest, deciding that it was as good a position as any if he was going to close his eyes and need to not fall asleep. With the way his body was protesting, he'd make it through the pudding-brained movie without much effort at all.

Except, when he opened his eyes, the television was off, it was dark outside, and he was alone on the couch, sprawled out so that he was hanging off the piece of furniture even more than before. He cursed himself—Clara was never going to let him hear the end of it—and went to find if she had simply gone to be herself or if she was still up. She was sleeping in her bed, which gave him a bit of hope. He stepped into the bathroom to relieve himself and shed some layers before joining her, only to discover something very odd when he looked in the mirror…

…his hair was filled with tiny, wee, miniature braids. He scratched at them until they had all been undone and went about his business. By the time he joined Clara in her bed, he was down to his question mark pants, with her unconsciously snugging herself along his back as he laid down.

Now, he figured, it was on matter of principle.


"How is it still even standing on-end?" Clara asked. It was clear to her that the Doctor had been distracted in the TARDIS's inner bowels and it took longer for him than usual to reach her. His hair was huge—much larger than she'd ever seen it.

"It does what it does," he shrugged, going back to tuning the console. He was about to take an actual, non-sonic screwdriver to a panel when she tugged him back by the hair, eliciting a surprised yelp. "What was that for?!"

"Proving a point," she said. Before the Doctor knew it, his hair was pulled back into the tiniest of ponytails, with a hairband keeping down the strays along the edge. "See? You need a haircut."

"This is cruel, Clara—you just don't attack someone's hair like that," he groused, his tone fangless. "That's assault."

"...an assault on everything that's going on here," she said, motioning towards the all of him. "Even the TARDIS agrees with me."

"The TARDIS does not agr—" He was cut off by the lights dimming and the console whirring, which caused him to glare at the ceiling. "Now don't you start!" He looked at Clara, who was standing there with her arms folded across her chest and a smirk on her face.

Maybe it was getting a little too long, he guessed. Possibly.


In the end, it wasn't nearly as short as when he had first regenerated, but it was definitely a noticeable difference. His hair was still long enough for Clara to run her hands through, which was not an improvement as she tugged him through the halls of Coal Hill by the top of his head. He was in his caretaker's coat, a sparking wire in one hand and the small battery it was attached to in the other, bent over in half as he was unceremoniously escorted through the corridor during the students' lunch.

"What is the matter with you?!" she hissed as she dragged him into her empty classroom. She let go and he straightened, placing the battery on her desk. "I've got the mind to think that you just won't stop until you've leveled the school!"

"Not leveled the school, but I am making sure that it's properly defended from the next time there's an invasion," he responded. "I mean, it's nearing December—we're nearly due."

"...and why do you say that?" she frowned. He shrugged and yanked the wire off the battery, making sure the connection was no longer live. "Are you making a prediction or do you know something that I don't?"

"I think we need to get you back in with Kate for a bit," he suggested. Clara grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him down, holding him in place with his hair as she snogged him with a sense of purpose.

"Just keep me informed, yeah? No alien business goes down in this school without me knowing about it, got me?"

"Loud and clear," he grinned.