(no subject)
How he managed to stay so bloody pale in all this sun was anybody's guess.
His mother's family had been notoriously fair haired. A truly Aryan lot. Porcelain skinned and fragile. A quiet, bookish people who withered in the out of doors. It served him well, retreating into the darkness as a vampire hadn't been much of a change. At least in that regard.
But his hair was honey blonde, gently curling, the kind of locks that women cooed over in the streets, and he'd been taking dye to it for nearly as long as it had been readily available in drugstores. Black and darker brown in the early days, then white blonde in the seventies. It had been a long hall, those forty years, but the hair had become as synonymous with him as the sneer, the coat, the railroad spike.
One didn't have to worry about follicle damage when one was undead. Now, it was too much of a habit to drop.
This wasn't his normal shade, pilfered from a woman who'd disappeared weeks before, but it was close enough. He applied it standing in front of the mirror in the basement bathroom, then walked upstairs, shirtless and with a towel draped across his shoulders, to have a smoke while the color set.
He thought, briefly, that he might find a bottle of black nail varnish lying about, if he had a look, but decided he probably ought not to press his luck.
[[Keep him company while the dye sets, either already outside the compound while he has a smoke, or anywhere inside. ST/LT always welcome. No limit.]]
His mother's family had been notoriously fair haired. A truly Aryan lot. Porcelain skinned and fragile. A quiet, bookish people who withered in the out of doors. It served him well, retreating into the darkness as a vampire hadn't been much of a change. At least in that regard.
But his hair was honey blonde, gently curling, the kind of locks that women cooed over in the streets, and he'd been taking dye to it for nearly as long as it had been readily available in drugstores. Black and darker brown in the early days, then white blonde in the seventies. It had been a long hall, those forty years, but the hair had become as synonymous with him as the sneer, the coat, the railroad spike.
One didn't have to worry about follicle damage when one was undead. Now, it was too much of a habit to drop.
This wasn't his normal shade, pilfered from a woman who'd disappeared weeks before, but it was close enough. He applied it standing in front of the mirror in the basement bathroom, then walked upstairs, shirtless and with a towel draped across his shoulders, to have a smoke while the color set.
He thought, briefly, that he might find a bottle of black nail varnish lying about, if he had a look, but decided he probably ought not to press his luck.
[[Keep him company while the dye sets, either already outside the compound while he has a smoke, or anywhere inside. ST/LT always welcome. No limit.]]