The Undertaker was woken up in the middle of the night by somebody shaking his shoulder and hissing his name incessantly.

"Undertaker! Wake up. Undertaker!"

The Undertaker groaned and rolled over and was about to go back to sleep when somebody grabbed the blankets and yanked them off of the bed in one swift movement, thus yanking him off as well.

"OW! What the he…?"

"UNDERTAKER! Wake up!"

"I'm up; I'm up! Good god, what is it that is so important that it requires such a rude awakening at such an unreasonable hour of the night?"

"My hair!"

"Your hair?!"

The Undertaker blinked the sleep out of his eyes and stared up at the person in confusion. They were tall, familiar-looking, and were clutching their hair in desperation.

"My hair!" Sebastian said again. "Look at my hair!"

"What's wrong with your hair?" the Undertaker yawned, slowly sitting up and fumbling for a light switch. "Don't tell me that you've done something boneheaded again?"

"NO! Don't turn on the lights!"

"But if I don't turn on the lights, how will I be able to see your hair?" he said impatiently, and accordingly illuminated the room. He turned around to look at the elegant Phantomhive butler, and his sentence died in his throat.

"…Sebastian," he finally said. "What did you do to your hair?"

"What does it look like I did? I dyed it!"

"But why in the flamin' hell did you dye it THAT COLOR?!"

"I didn't KNOW that it would turn out to be this way! I don't understand what went wrong; I followed all of the instructions on the box to the letter and I did everything that I was supposed to do so why did it turn out this way?!"

"Alright," the Undertaker said, running his hand through his own, thankfully-normally-colored hair. "Okay. Let's just calm down for a bit. This is perfectly normal…"

"NORMAL?! In what WAY, in what WORLD, could this POSSIBLY be defined as 'NORMAL?!'"

"No, no, it's okay; it's completely fine; this is absolutely normal…"

"How? Explain yourself."

"It's completely normal. Lots of young men do this sort of thing."

"They what? They do? Really? You mean this happens a lot?"

"Of course! All the time! They feel that there is something missing in their life–or they want a change—or they want to rebel against their cruel society—and so they do something wild and outrageous! Some pierce their lips, some cut their tongue, some dye their hair an unusual colour…"

"WHAT?! You mean you actually think I WANTED it to be like…like THIS?!"

"…But don't worry!" the Undertaker continued in false cheerfulness. "Soon you'll see thousands of other gentleman walking around with hair…like…that. You'll start a new fashion statement! We'll call it…'young punk.'"

"We'll call it 'imbecilic demon.' I did NOT want it to be this way!"

"You could pull it off! It looks…um…attractive…"

The Undertaker couldn't even say it with a straight face; he had to look away, shoulders shaking.

"Are you…laughing? Are you laughing at me? Are you laughing at this?!"

"No, I'm not. I'm serious! Besides, lots of young women are attracted to rebels…"

This put an entirely new spin on things. Sebastian tilted his head, considering this.

"They are? Really?"

"R-R-Really," the Undertaker said, choking with suppressed laughter. "They l-l-love them…!"

Sebastian's eyebrow started twitching.

"B-But…But…YOUR HAIR!"

And the first shock of the situation wore away, leaving only the humor, and the Undertaker collapsed onto the floor and started rolling around with glee. Meanwhile, Sebastian had crossed his arms and started tapping his foot.

"Y-Your hair!" the Undertaker couldn't stop saying. "It's...It's…p…p…"

"It's pink," Sebastian said coldly. "Thank you; I've noticed that."

It wasn't even a nice pink, or even a light pink—something that could be easily passed off as a trick of the light or an allergic reaction or something similar. No, it was the brightest, most horrible shade of neon pink that had ever existed or ever would exist—or so Sebastian thought. His rational butler mind seemed to have shut down, leaving only the panicky, murderous demonic one.

Even now, while he was impatiently waiting for the Undertaker to calm down, he couldn't understand what had gone wrong. He had read and re-read the instructions on the dye box several hundred times. He had carefully applied the dye to his hair, had waited for fifteen minutes, and then he had washed it out. At first, he had tried to be very careful and only added a little bit of dye to his hair—just to get that aforementioned red sheen to his black hair. But the dye seemed to be very thin, and in order to ensure that he was truly getting a head of red hair, he started applying a bit more and a bit more until he had actually used up the whole bottle.

And rather than getting upset, he had just shrugged and had dutifully waited his fifteen minutes.

"After all," he thought, "maybe I'll get another type of red—a type of red so dark it'll still seem black."

And that didn't seem so bad at all.

Everything had been going great until he had finished his shower and had stared at himself in the mirror.

His hair—instead of being the red sheen or the dark red that he had so wanted, instead of being the rose-color that the box had promised, instead of being anything even remotely resembling the color 'red,'—his hair was pink. It practically illuminated the whole bathroom with its neon glow—it didn't really attract attention; it commanded it.

Sebastian had stared at his head in shock. And then, once his first impressions had died out, he screamed.

Which naturally brought the whole household hammering on his door.

Among them was Eleanora.

"Is everything alright? What happened? Can I come in?"

"NO!" Sebastian had said and he had hurled himself against the door to prevent anyone from barging in and seeing his disgrace. "Everything's fine; just fine; nobody come in here!"

Fortunately, his bathroom was connected to his bedroom, so he was able to stay there until everyone had gone back to bed. Then he had gotten dressed and had gone directly to the Undertaker for help.

"What am I going to do?" he asked once the Undertaker had conquered his hysteria. "What am I going to do? I can't go back like this! I'm the butler for María's sake; if I go back with my hair such a color…"

"Why did you even do it?" the Undertaker asked. "What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?"

Sebastian shuffled around a bit awkwardly. He normally would have said something noncommittal, like "nothing," but that would have been a blatant lie, which he, of course, couldn't tell.

The Undertaker quickly figured it out despite his silence—or maybe because of it.

"Let me guess," he sighed, "your reason starts with an E and ends with an A and has a 'leanor' somewhere in the middle of the two."

Sebastian still didn't say anything.

"I can't believe that you would do something so moronic just to impress your wife. I had really thought that you had more sense than that."

"Shut up. You would have done the same."

"No, I would not have. I would not have dyed my hair pink to impress a girl."

"IT WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE PINK."

"Well, then, what color was it supposed to be?"

"R-Red," Sebastian said sheepishly.

"RED?! Why of all colors red? You don't even like red hair!"

"I thought…I thought that…"

"Well, stop thinking. You young men are all the same! You'd do anything to get a smile out of the object of your affections, and that inevitably results in something stupid happening to you—stupid mostly because, with a little bit of common sense, it could have been easily prevented!...No, but that hair truly is horrible," the Undertaker said, giggling a bit again.

"Yes, I know that. But why did it happen?"

"You must have messed up the dye job somehow."

"I did not. I read the instructions very thoroughly."

"Then why did it turn out that way?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't even be here, now would I? But never mind why it got this way! What's important is how I undo it!"

"You can't undo it. You have to dye it black again."

Sebastian took several steps backwards, clutching his hair protectively.

"I don't know what else to do with it! It'll take some time for your roots to grow out, so unless you want to spend a month with pink hair, your only real option is to dye it black."

Sebastian winced, considered things, and finally nodded.

"Alright. Could you please run out and get me some more dye and then I'll…"

"No. You're not doing anything. If there's any dying to be done, I'll be doing it. Who knows what color your hair will turn out if you do it wrong again?"

"But I didn't do it wrong!"

"Of course you didn't," the Undertaker said, patting his arm soothingly. "Now just wait here; I'll be back in a moment."

Fifteen minutes later, he came back with three bottles of black hair dye.

"Just in case we need more than one bottle," he explained in the bathroom. "We're going to need a lot of this stuff to cover all these…problem areas."

Sebastian didn't say anything throughout the whole dying job. The Undertaker, as expected, used up all three bottles to make sure that all trace of the pink was eliminated. They waited for half-an-hour instead of the usual fifteen minutes, just to make sure that the dye would really soak in, and then Sebastian took a shower.

The Undertaker was called up to the bathroom after he was done.

"Well? How is it? Is it black again?"

Sebastian stepped out of the tub and the Undertaker's mouth dropped open. In fairness, his hair was no longer a vibrant neon pink.

No, it was now the charming green color that occasionally accompanies vomit.

The Undertaker stammered out some words while Sebastian approached him, cracking his knuckles.

"So," he said in a soft, dangerous voice, "I messed up the dye job, did I? I did it wrong, hmm?"

"We—can—fix—it," the Undertaker choked out, his face already turning red.

"HOW."

"I'll—go—see—if—there's—some—unholy—dye. Meanwhile, you—try—and—wash—it—out!"

The Undertaker fled downstairs and soon the whole house was shaking with his laughter.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and got back into the bath. He used up all of the Undertaker's shampoo, conditioner, soap, body wash, shaving cream, and any other body-cleaning product that he could find. And when he ran out of that, he started looking for more…creative alternatives.

He found some toilet cleaner in the bathroom, so he used that. He found some disinfectant, and he used that. He found some bleach, but he didn't use that, as he didn't want his hair to come out a sick white.

But he used everything else: dish soap, hand soap, turpentine, bathroom cleaner, floor polisher, baking soda, charcoal, ash, gin, brandy, a half-filled bottle of vodka, vinegar, tea, some kind of carbonated drink, various forms of acid, mortuary disinfectants, ancient perfume, cologne, aftershave; anything and everything that he thought could help clean his hair, he used, and he used up everything. Soon the bathroom was littered with empty bottles and cartons and boxes.

The house smelled decidedly odd when the Undertaker returned with nothing. His stomach filled with dread as he knocked on the bathroom door.

"Sebastian? What did you do now?"

The door opened, and the Undertaker couldn't decide what looked worse—the bathroom or the butler.

The bathroom, as aforementioned, looked like some sort of demented junkshop. But Sebastian, all things considered, looked worse.

His skin was irritated from the acid and the real human alcohol which he had used—which he, of course, was wildly allergic to—and his hair had not become any better from the treatment. If anything, it looked even worse than before.

When pink and green mix, they usually come out as brown. In some cases, they make a very nice brown—kind of auburn-like, really. But when one mixes a horrible pink color with a horrible green color, it can be expected that the result will be a horrible brown color.

And it was even worse in Sebastian's case: the top of his head was still green, but then it went into that horrible brown, but the ends of his hair were still bright pink.

"…You look like a clown gone terribly, terribly wrong," the Undertaker said. This was past laughing—this was past frustration and getting upset—he was actually starting to feel a bit impressed. Who knew that a demon butler—a butler, of all things!—could do so many brainless things in one night? "What'd you do—wash it with turpentine or something?"

Sebastian nodded and grimly held up the now-empty turpentine bottle. The Undertaker's eyes popped out of his head.

"WHY IN THE TEN HELLS DID YOU DO SUCH A THING?!"

"It said that it dissolved things," Sebastian said, staring at the box, "so I naturally thought that it could dissolve the hair dye, too…"

"Do you realize that that stuff is nasty? What else did you put into your hair?"

Sebastian gestured to the mess all around.

"Everything that you see, I used."

"You mean…?" the Undertaker said in growing horror as his eye fell on a bottle, which had been formally filled with a substance that he had used to clean his drains. "You mean…You poured all of this on your head?!"

"And scrubbed it in, yes. Why?"

"Sebastian, do you realize that these things could kill you?!"

The butler scoffed at this.

"It's a miracle that there's still hair on your head at all! No, it probably can't even be considered 'hair' now—you probably damaged it to no end." The Undertaker sighed and left the house again. He didn't return for quite a while, but this time around, he came back with several things in a shopping bag.

Sebastian was still sitting in the bathroom, trying to see if there was anything left in the bottles to use for his hair. He rolled his eyes upon seeing the Undertaker take out a razor.

"Please. It's not that bad that I'm going to kill myself over it…" His voice died out when the Undertaker brought out a can of shaving cream. "NO! No, I am NOT cutting my hair off!"

"Sebastian, it's not even hair anymore! With all the garbage you put on it, it's just a chemical battlefield! If we don't shave it, it's just going to fall out anyway."

Sebastian scoffed again and twisted a lock of his hair around his finger to show how strong it was.

"Please. A little acid in the hair isn't going to do anything to hurt it…"

The lock that he was playing with quietly fell out of his hair and into his hand. He stared at it in shock—he hadn't even pulled it out or applied pressure to it; it had literally just fallen out.

He silently sat down in front of the Undertaker, who started applying shaving cream onto his head.

"I think I know why your hair can't be dyed," the Undertaker finally said.

"Oh really? Why?"

"Isn't there something in your bible that says that changing oneself in any way is a sin?"

Sebastian was about to refute this when he remembered. There was indeed a passage in the Unholy Gospelle which clearly stated that physically changing oneself was a moral and religious crime.

"So what? You think that I've been cursed?"

"No, I think that you unholies have different hair than ours," the Undertaker mused. "It looks like hair and it acts like hair but it must have a different composition—it reacts negatively to chemicals like hair dye. That's why, whenever we tried dying it, it came out the wrong color."

"You mean," at this Sebastian perked up, "you mean that if I used, say, blue hair dye, my hair might come out red?"

The Undertaker had started shaving Sebastian's hair off, and he "accidentally" nicked his scalp upon hearing this.

"OW!"

"Don't struggle," the Undertaker growled, and soon all of Sebastian's hair—once so fine and prized, now so atrocious and damaged—was in the sink instead of on his scalp, which was indeed bright red and inflamed with irritation.

"So I'm bald now," Sebastian said, staring gloomily at his reflection. "What do I do now?"

The Undertaker reached into his shopping bag and pulled out two more things: unholy medicinal salve and unholy hair restoration tonic, because altering one's hair color was a sin, but the desire to not lose hair was not.

He smeared the salve onto Sebastian and then bandaged it up.

"I think that you should stay here for a couple of days—just until your hair grows back," the Undertaker said. "We won't put anything else on it now, as I think that'll do more harm to your skin than good, but unholy tonic works wonders. I'm sure that in a week or two your hair will be back to normal."

"A week or two?!" Sebastian's mind immediately flashed back to Eleanora and Drocell—if he was gone for a week or two, they would only get closer and closer until there would be no more room for him! "I can't stay here for a week or two!"

"It's either that or you go back to Phantomhive looking like a failed lobotomy patient. Or I could run out and buy you a wig!"

Sebastian actually seriously considered this option before the Undertaker told him that he was not running out in the middle of the night again. Then he slowly resigned himself to his fate of staying at the Undertaker's for a week—and all because of some hair dye.

The first day was spent trying to heal his scalp—this was accomplished by the Undertaker tying him up in a chair and applying the salve every half-hour. The chair-tying was because the skin had started peeling from his head, and Sebastian had started trying to scratch it off, which a) wasn't good for his head, and b) made the Undertaker feel ill to look at it.

Unholy salve, like unholy tonic, also works wonders, so by the second day, his head was completely fine and the Undertaker could start the re-growing process. The salve and the tonic were applied every hour.

Sebastian's hair started growing by the third day so it looked as if he had a buzz cut. And so on and so forth, until by the seventh day his hair had reached down to his shoulders. The Undertaker had spent several minutes wondering how to cut it, but Sebastian just bunched it up, got a knife, and sliced several inches off of it. His hair then fell down as it used to, with his bangs falling around his face. He looked absolutely normal after he had cut his hair—it was as it used to be, strong and glossy black, as if it had never changed; as if it hadn't been dyed twice and then subjected to all sorts of chemical interrogations, only to be shaved off and then regrown.

Sebastian thanked the Undertaker for everything and tried to pay him for his trouble.

"Oh, no!" the Undertaker assured him. "You've paid me quite enough already—when I just think of you with that pink hair…!"

He started laughing again and as Sebastian turned to leave, his eye fell upon his reflection. He stared at himself for a time, musing, before finally saying,

"…I wonder if I would look good as a blonde…?"

The Undertaker immediately stopped his giggling and said in a deadpan voice,

"If you come in here with your head a piss-yellow, I'm not helping you again."

Sebastian left awfully quickly after that.