7
Gretl rinsed her hair with the shower attachment of her bath, leaning over the side in a most undignified and uncomfortable position as she did so, and wondered why so many women felt the need to go through this process regularly. It made no sense to her; such a rigmarole for little real gain. If she had no pressing need to change her appearance after the fight at the warehouse, she would never in a million years want to have to waste time on this.
Still, it beats the old methods, she thought. At least now it's just a case of rinse, soak, rinse.
She squeezed as much water out of her hair as she could, grabbed an old towel and dried herself off. Her hair was still damp but that was fine. She looked at herself in the mirror, making sure she had covered every patch of hair she could see, picked up a pair of scissors and began cutting her hair into a short, spiky style. It would not look great since she was doing it herself, but it would be passable and that was all she needed for now.
There was only one thing left to do: fake tan. She had not been looking forward to that; it was even more hassle and undignified posturing than the hair dye.
It can wait until I've had a cigarette, she decided.
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