dig

Written for L.C., because she asked, and because she wrote me this little piece of brilliance first.

Hair
by Hetre Z

The only reason Joey wants to fuck with Justin's hair, he thinks, is because it's always so perfect. He won't say "play", he doesn't want to play with it. He wants to run the palm of his hand from Justin's forehead all the way back, feeling the gelled strands stiff and sharp against it. He wants to knot his fingers in it until they're trapped, stuck to Justin's skin.

Justin uses Paul Mitchel Selectives or something, something made with seaweed and vitamin E that smells like coffee beans and money. There's always five minutes between when he gets out of the shower and when he turns the blow dryer on that he'll let Joey pluck at him, pulling one curl at a time and laying them out flat and wet on his head. Joey likes to watch the perfect helix pattern fall apart, sprawl and straighten when he tugs at it just a little.

Joey buys Tops coconut two-in-one, generic shampoos and conditioners that make his hair feel waxy and limp. Sometimes there's a smell of anise, or knots that form at the base of his skull from the residue, and whenever he sweats in rehearsal it feels like coconut milk dripping down his neck and into his collar. Justin scrabbles his hands through it, grinning when his fingers shine greasy-bright in the light of the studio. Sometimes he'll push fingers through his own hair right after, making it fluff out under the bandanna.

He only fucks with Justin's hair because it's so perfect all the time. Joey wants to punch Paul Mitchel for making Justin's hair so glossy-soft, or knock the shampoo bottles against the wall, or make coffee bean sachets, the kind that Justin smells like, and push them under his pillow. He wants to lick the label on the conditioner. Justin's hair sproings out in the mornings, a giant shrub sprouting from his head, and Joey runs fingers through his own hair, feeling how thin it really is.