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Kirishima Eijirou bit his lip. My roots are getting bad again. He reached to the crown of his head, feeling smooth black hair.
His hair used to be soft, back in middle school. His mother would gush about his silky black hair being just like hers. His classmates would find excuses to pet him, asking if he washed his hair with mayonnaise or egg yolks or whatever other thing they read about that week.
He hated it. He didn’t want to be known for something as trivial as hair. In a world where everyone had something special, ordinary people stood out. People like Eijirou.
He didn’t want to stand out just for being ordinary.
His only unique feature was his scar, and that wasn’t even natural. Just a quirk accident from his childhood. If he wanted to be interesting, he’d have to make himself interesting.
Just after his middle school graduation, he walked to a corner store near his house and bought a box of shitty hair dye. He chose the brightest shade there. Red, like his hero’s. He didn’t realize he needed bleach until he got to the counter, which made his face a similar shade of crimson.
Now, he felt the rough, dry, splitting hair he’d bleached and dyed repeatedly. The products and his quirk were a pretty hair-destroying duo. Not only was his quirk weaker than his peers, but it wrecked his hair too. He knew he should take better care - it’s not manly to neglect oneself - but he really was happier this way. Except when the black hair crept back, his insecurities growing with it.
Eijirou usually purged his roots (and his self-doubt) every two months, but he’d been struggling lately. It’d been a whole extra month. UA courses were tough. Very tough. He barely found the time to buy hair bleach, let alone to actually use it. So, this time, he just bought the “reds for dark hair only” box and went. He didn’t care how bad it was long-term.
He forced himself off the couch, jogging up the stairs to his dorm. He grabbed the dented box and tossed it on his counter. Brush, brush, where’s the brush… he thought to himself, rummaging through his drawers.
Several minutes later, the boy gave up on his search. I can just harden my fingers and use those as a brush, he decided. He tore open the box with his teeth and squeezed the tube into developer, shaking it thoroughly to mix them together.
He quickly regretted using his teeth. The smell was awful. Choking. He gagged, nearly dropping the bottle. Instead, he stiffened his fingers and poured the mix on them, running them through his hair as he grabbed a black towel to catch the drips.
Eijirou's fingers suddenly burned, eliciting a hissed “Ow!” Thoughtlessly, he sucked on the one burning the worst. Why does it hurt this bad? Usually, it doesn’t -
“OW!” he yelled again, spitting into the sink. His mouth was on fire. “What the hell?”
He looked up, seeing the mess he’d created. Red everywhere.
His eyes, naturally, but his face was red too. His hands were stained. Red trickled from his hair. And worst of all, his mouth was dripping copper strands into the sink.
What have I done?
He sat down, unable to look at himself any longer. Tears welled up - from pain, and from frustration. I’ll never be able to clean this.
Just as Eijirou began to cry, his door slammed opened with a bang. “Hey shitty hair! What’s all this noise, hah? I’m tryin’ to sleep!” a familiar voice groused.
Eijirou jumped to his feet, closing the bathroom door and (hopefully) hiding any evidence that he dyed his hair. He swallowed hard, ignoring the burn and awful taste, and rubbed his eyes with his shirt. “H-hey, Bakugou!” he greeted the intruder. “Sorry… having some trouble here.” He gave a weak, watery smile, hoping his friend would believe him.
“Tch. Your teeth are red, idiot. Tryin’ to dye your hair again?”
Eijirou flinched. “You know about that?” he asked, lowering his gaze. Somehow, he turned an even deeper shade of red. “That’s embarrassing,” he tried to laugh. He reached up to scratch his head.
Bakugou jumped over, grabbing his arm roughly. “Dumbass! The dye hasn’t set yet. You’ll just stain your fingers worse.”
Eijirou pulled his arm free, rubbing it gently. “Heh, you’re right. I forgot!”
“Move over,” Bakugou demanded, exasperation clear in his tone. “Let me fix whatever mess you made.”
Eijirou furrowed his brows, mouth settling into a confused grimace. He’s right, but that’s a little rude… Reluctantly, he stepped aside, letting Bakugou into his bathroom.
“Dude, this is awful! How’d you fuck it up this bad?” he crowed, cackling. “And this ‘reds for dark hair’ shit is terrible for your hair. You don’t wanna be bald in 10 years, do you?”
“Hey, man, leave me alone. Best I could do,” Eijirou said, but there was no bite in his words. He quickly smiled when Bakugou looked back at him, not wanting the other to catch on to his embarrassment.
“Hell no, it fuckin’ ain’t! You don’t even have a brush,” Bakugou continued, pointing at Eijirou’s stained fingers. “Your teeth fuck up toothbrushes fast, right? You gotta have an extra one. Use that. For fuck’s sake…”
Without asking, he opened the medicine cabinet and found Eijirou’s stash of unopened toothbrushes. He freed one and sprayed some of the poorly mixed dye onto it. “Get over here.”
Eijirou stepped over, protesting as he did. “Don’t be an ass,” he told his friend. Truly, though, he didn’t mind. His cousins were just like Bakugou, albeit less harsh in delivery.
“How do you know this stuff, anyway?” he asked as Bakugou brushed the mix into his hair with surprising delicacy. The other boy snorted.
“My parents are in the fashion industry. How couldn’t I know this shit?” He laughed, hitting Eijirou on the shoulder. “Better question is how you don’t know it.”
Eijirou chuckled in spite of himself. “It’s kinda embarrassing,” he confessed. “I’ve always just done it myself.”
“With this shit?” Bakugou asked incredulously, flicking the box with his free hand. “No wonder your hair’s in such bad shape. Shit’s falling off when I touch it.”
“No, of course not!” Eijirou defended. “I just didn’t feel like taking more time than I had to, y'know?”
They fell silent for a minute, Bakugou still brushing the dye into Eijirou’s hair. He smiled a little. Genuinely this time. Bakugou might be an asshole, but he’s Eijirou's friend. Ridiculing his bad decisions was the guy’s bizarre way of showing he cared.
He sniffled a bit. “Hey… thanks, man,” he said, not turning to face Bakugou. Feeling self conscious, he continued muttering. “You’re a good guy, y'know? I wish our class knew this side of you. That you’d do this for us.”
Bakugou barked out a harsh laugh. “You think I’d help out those losers? Hell no.”
Eijirou smiled, huffing a short laugh of his own. He opened his mouth to reply, but had nothing to say. Eventually, he came up with a simple question. “How’d you know I dye my hair?”
“You smell like bleach.” Bakugou’s voice was blunt. “There’s red stains everywhere. Sometimes your hair isn’t a consistent color.”
Eijirou winced. “Really?” he asked, slightly hurt.
“Nah. I’m fucking with you. I saw the stupid dye shampoo you have. Dunce-face almost nicked it but Glasses told him that he’d turn pink.”
Eijirou couldn’t help but laugh again. “I kinda wish Iida hadn’t said anything.”
Bakugou ran the toothbrush through Eijirou’s hair one last time. “Alright. There ya go, shitty hair. Use better dye next time, and condition for fuck’s sake.”
Bakugou stepped out, the door slamming in tandem with his footsteps. Eijirou called out another hasty thank you.
He looked in the mirror again, and things didn’t look so bad. He could always put his problems in perspective when he had someone to be around. The drips of dye weren’t as bright as he’d thought before. His tongue was the only bit of his mouth still red. And with the help of a friend, he’s calmed down enough to go back to his normal shade.
He grabbed the towel from around his neck and scrubbed the splashes of dye from his counter.
It’s not that bad, is it? he asked himself. I’ve got friends who care about me, even their ways of showing it are... a little concerning. And I always feel better when my hair’s fully dyed. Manlier.
He quietly hummed the tune to one of his favorite songs. He wasn’t particularly good at singing, but the low vibrations comforted him more. It wasn’t like hair dye and a conversation fixed everything, but still. It helped. Yeah… It’s not so bad. I think I’ll be just fine.