Title: A Bad Hair Day
Author: meagan <nutmeg@serv.net>
Summary: Oz has hair problems.
Distribution: Please ask.
Spoiler: Season 4 stuff about Spike and _Angel_
Rating: PG, I think.
Disclaimer: Of *course* they belong to someone else. If they were mine, things would be different. Specifically, they belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, WB, and anyone else I forgot. L'Oreal owns the disappointments that are Feria, Sunset Blaze, and Les Noirs Fatals in Deepest Indigo. I'm not sure who owns the song "Better off Dead," but E. G. Daily performed it, and the movie was Savage Steve Holland's baby. And Luscious Jackson and Grand Royal own "Naked Eye."
Notes: This was written as a response to a challenge to work certain items into a fic. Horrible hair coloring is defined differently by various people. Some would consider my pink hair experience caused by Feria to be a life-ruining disaster. Some consider all hues an adventure and only actual hair loss or scalp damage to be a failure. I'm currently experiencing the pain Oz undergoes in the beginning of this thing (and my attempt to fix it as described below did not cause any color change whatsoever, in case anyone was wondering. I'm going to have to go *blonde* before I can do anything else. I'm *so* not a blonde. Maybe I can find that Red Passion Manic Panic I've heard looks just like Lola's shade in _Run Lola Run_). And I don't like the title, but I spent even more time trying to think of a better one than I did to write the thing in the first place, so I gave up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~They breathed more easily now that Thanksgiving and all the nightmarish and mandatory family togetherness was over. The remaining evening and day of the break -- with no pressing engagements on their schedule aside from spending time together -- stretched before them, but he was still not a happy camper.

"Oz, it really doesn't look that bad."

He sighed. "Will, it's supposed to be blue. *Blue*, not black. I look like I should be listening to the Cure and stealing my mom's black eyeliner. Okay, so it was kind of navy for about a week, but then the blue washed out, and now I'm stuck with this boring black. Now you can't even tell I dyed it an actual color. This is a disaster."

"Well, you could always bleach it out and start over, right?"

Obviously, she had very little experience with color experimentation. "It's hard to do. Black hair goes through about five different stages as you bleach it. I could end up with orange hair because I didn't leave the stuff on long enough." He sighed again, frustrated at his now-boring hair. "Maybe Spike can help me. That's definitely not his natural color."

~~~~

The blond could have helped -- about three blenders of drinks ago. Much to their amusement, he was sprawled on his couch, watching a movie and singing along with the singer on the screen. "I'd be better off dead/ Than to live without you."

Willow stared at the television in amazement. Spike, watching a John Cusack movie? "Oh, hey, I recognize her! She was in that Nicolas Cage movie Buffy made me watch last weekend. _Valley Girl_. I still can't believe people actually *dressed* like that." She turned her attention to Spike. "Um, what's with the party hats?"

"Jimi Hendrix's birthday." Oz's voice surprised her. He shrugged. "At least that's my guess. He would have been fifty-seven today."

"He's right." Finally, Spike lifted his head from the back of the couch, carefully pulling the hats -- pointing like horns -- from his head. "Hey, stop moving the room." He spotted Oz, frowning. "What the hell happened to your hair?"

Sighing yet again, Oz explained, "The picture on the box looked different. Help me?"

"Okay." Unenthusiastically, Spike attempted to get to his feet. He did not succeed.

"Um, Oz?" Willow was clearly more than a little nervous. "Are you sure this will be okay? I mean, he smells like a Jimmy Buffett concert."

"A Jimmy Buffett concert would smell like Corona beer, pot smoke, and margaritas, not pina coladas."

"You know what I mean." Willow watched Spike nervously, lowering her voice. "Just look at him, trying to get off the couch. He can't even stand up. Do you really want him near your hair with chemicals?"

Oz shrugged. "It's not like it would be the first time a drunk guy dyed my hair."

She turned back to him expectantly. "This sounds like a story I need to hear."

"Later. After I get good hair back."

~~~~

She had to laugh at the sight. Spike, hands encased in latex gloves, carefully examining Oz's hairline to make sure he didn't miss a spot with the hair dye. Sunset Blaze. It had been decided that the chances of success would be better if Oz was deliberately going for the red or orange that he was sure to get if he attempted to go blond. Spike had sobered up a bit during the trip to the store, and his hands were even steady by the time they returned to his apartment. The two males were so wrapped up in this process that they didn't notice Willow's small hand sneak over to the ashtray, stealing Spike's cigarette. Smiling to herself, she inhaled deeply, just as she had seen Spike do many times. And then she promptly choked, dropping the cigarette. Unfortunately, it landed on a beanbag chair. The stench of melting plastic permeated the room, overpowering the chemicals on Oz's head. She finally recovered enough to beat the small fire out, but the beanbag was still left with a sizable hole. And a pile of its bean stuffing on the floor beside it.

"Wonderful. My favorite chair."

Spike frowned at the new arrival. "I have a roll of duct tape to fix the holes. Doyle, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Just thought I'd stop by and make sure you were living up to your end of the bargain." Doyle paused, taking in the sight of Spike playing colorist to Oz. "And it does look like you're staying out of trouble even if it does smell like a Jamaican resort exploded in here." He moved back to the living room. "But I think I'll stick around a little bit longer. Just curious to see the result of your little experiment there."

Oz nodded. "Hey, you can tell me if you like the color, okay?"

Doyle snorted. "Yeah, whatever." He sat on the couch, flipping through Spike's pile of cd cases and holding up one that caught his attention. "Hey, have you ever seen this video? The guy in it looks exactly like Whistler."

Oz carefully turned his head to see the cd in question. "Haven't seen it, but I like the song. 'Wearing nothing is divine/ Naked is a state of mind/ I take things off to clear my head/ To say the things I haven't said.'"

"Oh, my." Spike set the timer. "Okay, it will be time to rinse in half an hour."

~~~~

Finally, Oz decided he had rinsed enough -- that his hair was free of the nasty chemicals and conditioner. He wasn't sure what color it was going to be once he found a mirror, but he felt secure in the knowledge that it was at least no longer flat black. He hated being mistaken for a goth.

He stepped into the living room. "Where did everyone go?" Doyle turned off the television -- Oz could see that he had been watching _Scream_, as if their own lives weren't frightening enough -- before he stood to stare at Oz. "What? Is my hair green or something?"

"No." Doyle cleared his throat. "Spike took Willow to the store while you were rinsing out your hair. He didn't have anything for you two to eat here, and she was hungry."

"Oh." He realized Doyle was still staring at him. "And you're still staring at me because..."

Slowly, Doyle crossed the room. Carefully, he cradled Oz's face in his hands. Deliberately, he pressed his lips to Oz's. Cautiously, Oz opened his mouth and stroked Doyle's tongue with his own.

The door opened at that point. "Oh... my... god!"

Doyle and Oz quickly jumped apart. "It's not what you think!"

"It's not?" Willow turned to Spike. "No matter what *they* think, *you* still owe me fifty bucks."

~~~ the end ~~~