Title: The God of Hair Products
By: flipflopadd1ct
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Nick once said that I "worship the God of Hair Products."

***

Nick once said that I "worship the God of Hair Products."

(And when he did? I replied, "No, I worship your cock. But I can convert at any time." That shut him up.)

But, you know, he might have a point. After all, my various shampoos, conditioners, gels, mousses, sprays (yeah, you get the idea) do happen to cover my half of the sink's counter and the toilet's back. My hair just requires much careful attention to detail, and for that, I'm sorry.

Okay. So maybe I'm not. But I know Nick's never really bitching about my hair and the money I spend on it. He likes its spontaneity.

Nick's known me for years, now, and has hence seen most of my ever-changing hair-styles. He's witnessed various faux-hawks, has played with different lengths of spikes, has both appreciated and depreciated the colors that come and go. When we met, my hair was long and a dark shade of brown – believe it or not, that was my natural hair color. Ew, I know – much like it is now. Albeit my hair now is lighter than it was then, and maybe a bit shorter, but the style is similar.

Nick really liked this look, too. Notice how I said "liked."

The other day, while eating a hasty dinner (we happened to get up late; Nicky was being voracious and all in the sack again. So not my fault that my body's so very irresistible), Nick told me he wanted a change.

To which I answered (very articulately), "Huh?"

"Your hair," he said.

"I thought you liked this," I said, running my fingers through my gorgeous fabulous locks.

"I miss how it used to be," Nick shrugged.

"There are, like, fifty 'used-to-be's,' Nick. Which one?"

Nick looked like he was going to respond, but then seconds later he rises from his chair and reminds me that we're running late. So I dropped the subject.

Until today.

"Were you planning on telling me which style you want? After all, your wish is my command."

We were sitting on the couch, watching the news. CNN or something, and it was report after report on the war in Israel. So, naturally, I was much more focused on Nick and other Nick-related things.

Which, apparently, included my hairstyles.

"Yeah," Nick replied. "I got you something."

He pulled out a box of hair coloring. Bleach, to be exact, and handed it to me. I proceeded to peruse its contents thoroughly.

"It's the right kind," I said, nodding. "I'm impressed."

"So are you going to use it?"

"What do I get for using it?"

"Hot sex?"

"I thought it was always hot..."

"Hotter sex?"

"Works for me. But am I just coloring it, or what? Help me out heβ€”"

"Spikes!" Nick blurted, cutting me off oh-so-rudely. (Yet oh-so-cutely.)

"I haven't done spikes in a while..." I trailed off, thinking. It's been years.

"It's been three years."

Nick has a tendency to read my mind. But what can I say? We're in love.

"I'll do it." I leaned over and pecked him on the cheek (he hates it when I do that, so I like to do it as often as possible). "But this is funny, Nicky, because you were making fun of me the other day for my use of such hair products."

There went his shit-eating grin.

"Yeah, well," he started. "...I got nothing."

"One point for Sanders!" I pumped a fist in the air.

"So how soon can you get it done?" Nick asked, eyes shining. He's an eager one.

"I'll get it cut tomorrow. Bleach it as soon as possible. Okay?"

"Mmhmm."

He leaned over and kissed me on the mouth, but like most times, one thing just led to another and...let's just say that the couch probably needs a new pair of cushions. Shouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out.

Anyway, I've got a hair appointment for tomorrow, after shift. Once it's all said and done I expect Nick won't let me out of the bedroom for a week, but who's complaining?

Certainly not me! And, come to think of it, it seems like Nick has not yet realized that maybe I don't "worship the God of Hair Products."

Maybe I am the God of Hair Products.

***