One Direction Preferences

109. He Helps You Dye Your Hair

Louis: You had been dying your hair black for a few years now, but Louis had finally convinced you to go back to your natural color; it had always been his favorite on you. You’d been going through the bleaching process for a few weeks now; it’s a pain in the ass to lift out the black color. You’d started to process in the salon, but you suddenly became unsatisfied with the job the beautician had been doing. You’d decided to do it at home with time with Louis’ help. You knew he’d be good at anything beauty related because he grew up with half a dozen women in the house. Louis has you sit on the bathroom counter while he adorns plastic gloves and reviews the products you’ve chosen. “Forty volume bleach? Forty volume! (Y/n), this is going to fry your hair! You should’ve gone with a twenty volume instead,” he scolds. “I don’t care!” you exclaim, “I’m ready for this black to come out as soon as possible!” He rolls his eyes at you and begins to mix the  solution. You gives you a brush and intrusts you to comb out all of the tangles. You begin to haphazardly rake through your hair before you Louis interjects, “No! You’re doing it wrong, love. You’ve got to brush out the tangles bottom to top, or you’ll rip out more hair than you need to,” he explains. You shrug him off but do what you’re told. After he turns you to face the mirror, he combs over your hair and begins to section it off. He carefully applies the bleach to your hair, starting from the roots and gradually pulling it out to the ends until all your hair was completely saturated. He gathers it all on top of your head and places a plastic cap over it. “Now, you better not scratch that, or you might get some sores,” he explains while setting a timer, “If it itches, you’ll just have to pat it.” You shake your head in acknowledgment. To pass the time, Louis makes you some juice, and you two discuss his upcoming tour. Once the timer goes off, Louis helps you rinse your hair in the kitchen sink. You’ve finally got all the bleach out, and your hair is securely wrapped up in a towel atop your head. “Well, I think it’s about nap time, you declare with a huge yawn. “Oh no you don’t!” Louis thrusts a bottle at you, “You’re going to get in the shower and put this on your hair!” You inspect the label on the bottle: Deep Conditioner. “I swear, Louis…you care more about my hair than I do,” you joke. “Well, someone’s got to do the worrying around here,” he laughs and pushes you toward the shower.

Zayn: “Zayn! Can you come here for a second?” you call from the bathroom. “Yeah!” he calls back. You can hear footsteps pattering down the hallway and stopping at the bathroom door. Zayn pokes his head in before visibly cringing at the pungent smell of hair dye. He flicks the switch on the wall to turn on the bathroom vent before he addresses you, “What’s up, babe?”  “Can you please help me get this dye on the back of my hair?” you ask him. “Ugh, babe, c’mon. You know I hate you dying your hair, especially now that you’re putting in crazy colors like purple!” he says motioning to your hands, which are caked in lilac hair dye. “Please, baby? Pleaseee? I can’t see back there!” you beg, using your best puppy dog eyes. Zayn sighs and finally gives in. “Thank you, baby!” you say enthusiastically, giving him a kiss. He slips on the extra pair of
gloves sitting on the vanity, but before you could explain to him what to do, he squeezes out a missive glob of dye into his palm and wipes it on the back of your head. You can feel it dripping down onto your neck. “Zayn! That’s not how you’re supposed to do it!” you exclaim. “Hey, just be glad I agreed. I’ll fix it, don’t you worry your pretty little mind,” he reassures you. He finally had it all mixed in, and he even set the timer for you. While waiting for the time to pass, you  decided to address the subject of what you were going to do for dinner tonight. You agreed on takeout; you’d pay since he did last time. You got in the shower and washed out all the dye, and after about forty minutes later, you had dried and styled your hair. You were very excited to show Zayn how it turned out, so you wandered out onto the deck where Zayn was  having a smoke. “Babe, doesn’t my hair look awesome?” you gush. He nods and reaches across you to get his drink off the table. When he was bringing his hand back, the cherry of his cigarette singed the ends of your freshly died hair. Your nose was suddenly filled with the scent of burnt hair. “Ugh! Damn it, Zayn!” you exclaim. You reach out and slap the  cigarette out of his hand. “I’m sorry, (y/n)! I really didn’t mean to, I swear! What can I do to make you feel better?” he begs. “It’s fine,” you sigh, “You’re paying for takeout though.”

Niall: You had been highlighting your hair since you were about fifteen; you’d always loved the way it looked. You’d waited until the absolute last minute to dye your hair; your roots had grown out about half an inch now. You couldn’t go to the salon today; it was Sunday, and they were closed. However, you were determined to do this. Niall volunteered to help you;
he has someone highlight his hair for him, so he had a general knowledge of what to do. You two decided to do highlights  with a cap instead of foils; that’s the only way Niall knows how to do it. You slipped on the plastic cap and tied the  laces at the bottom. You were really worried that this was going to hurt; you’ve only done foils before and you had a  feeling your hair was a little too long for it to be pulled through the cap. It was worth a shot though, right? Niall laughed at how nervous you were, “It’s alright, babe” he assured you, “Just take a deep breathe.” You pushed the metal hook through the cap and pulled out a few strands of hair. “See? I did pretty good!” he boasts. He continues the process for ten more minutes before you feel a snap. “Oh, shit,” he says quietly. “What? What is it?” you ask worriedly. “I accidentally pulled a knot through,” he explains, “i think your hair might be a little too long for this…” he trails off. You untie  the cap and carefully pull it off. “We’ll just learn how to do foils tomorrow or something,” you say, “You did a job job
though, for what it’s worth.”

Liam: When Liam found out you were going to be dying your hair, he was very excited. He bugged you for a few days until you agreed to let him help. He loved helping you go through your beauty routines; it tickles him to death to know that he’s helped you do something to make you feel beautiful. A week after you’d made the decision, it was time to get it done.
You made a list of the things you needed and sent Liam out to the local beauty supplies store to retrieve them. After  calling you thirty times to confirm what he was supposed to be getting, Liam finally emerges through the front door with a bunch of shopping bags. He unloads all of the products onto the kitchen table. There’s bleach, conditioner, mixing
bottles, and…something else. “Liam…why’d you buy chocolate?” you ask, cocking your eyebrow in confusion. “Well,” Liam starts, “Just in case you don’t like the way it turns out or something…you’ll have chocolate to make you feel better!” You smile at his thoughtfulness and give him a kiss. “Thank you, baby. You’re the best,” you tell him. You send Liam to get
an old towel from the linen closet while you mix all the dye together. After a few minutes, he comes into the kitchen, towel in hand. “Ugh, what’s that smell?” he complains. “The hair dye, duh. Haven’t you ever smelled this before?” you ask and hand him a pair of gloves. “No, I haven’t. I’ve never helped anyone do this before,” he laughs while slipping on the gloves. You starts to coat your hair in the dye while you two made small talk. after about ten minutes, you could feel that something was wrong; you peeked over your shoulder and found a very flushed, sick looking Liam. “Oh my god! Li, are you okay?” you ask, rushing to his side. You take the gloves off his hands, wrap them in plastic, and throw them away. You lead Liam out onto the balcony for some fresh air. ‘Liam, are you alright? Are you having trouble breathing? Count to three for me. Do you need some water?” you ramble. ‘Babe, I’ll be fine. I swear,” he assures you. You nod and head to the shower to wash the dye off your hair. you shampooed it about five times, just to make sure the smell was completely gone. You entered the kitchen to find all the windows open and Liam eating the chocolate he’d bought you. You laugh out loud, and he turns to face you, suddenly startled. “What? I didn’t like the way this turned out, so I deserve the chocolate!” he says. You shake your head in a agreement; he was already back to normal.

Harry: You were very surprised when Harry agreed to help you dye your hair. He normally tried to stay as far away from things like this as he could. You were standing in the bathroom together, and you were explaining to him what he needed to do while you were mixing up the bleach. “I’ve got it, babe. I know what I’m doing,” he says, pushing you down into the  chair you’d brought from the kitchen. He goes to grab the bleach off the counter, but you stop him, “Babe, you have to use the gloves,” you explain. “I’ll be fine,” he says nonchalantly. “No, I’m being serious,” you try again. “I don’t need gloves, because I’m a man!” Harry declares. you roll your eyes at him. You’d just let him figure it out the hard way; there was no convincing Harry otherwise when he’d made up his mind about something. He scoops up some of the bleach onto his fingers and begins to massage it onto your scalp. After about forty seconds, he begins to wail. “Ahhh! Shit! Bloody hell!” he exclaims. “I told you that you needed the gloves, Harold,” you say matter of factly. He puts the tap on full blast and shoves his hands underneath it. He scrubs his hand three times for good measure. “Owwwww!” Harry cries. “Here, baby. Let me see,” you coo, taking his hands in yours, “Where does it hurt?” “My fingers,” he whines. You kiss each of his finger tips, “There. Better now?” He nods his head and hides his face. “Alright, let’s go put some neosporin on them. It looks like you’re going to have a blister on your little finger,” you explain, pushing him towards the kitchen. “Next time we do this, you’re going to wear gloves, aren’t you?” you said; it was more of a statement than a question. Harry shakes his head in agreement, “I want black ones. Black is a manly color.” While his fingers may have been hurt, his ego obviously wasn’t.