Boothill

For a man who spent most of his life on the move, never in one place too long, Boothill was surprisingly particular about his hair. Those long silver locks took work—regular washing, careful combing, using a balm, too. When he was out on a job or just needed to keep things practical, he'd pull it back in a ponytail so it wouldn't get in the way. But at home? He let it hang loose.

Home. That was still a weird word for him. You'd only moved in together a few weeks ago, and Boothill was still getting used to your space, your routines, the sheer amount of stuff you had.

"Can I use yer shower, sweetheart? Thank ya!" he hollered, already halfway through the bathroom door.

You heard the water kick on, then the rumble of him humming some old tune while he soaped up. But your bathroom was packed with all kinds of products: bottles and jars everywhere, masks, serums, conditioners, all of it. And Boothill, well, reading wasn't exactly his strong suit. So when it came time to wash his hair, he just grabbed the first thing that looked like shampoo.

That something was shampoo indeed, but by unfortunate coincidence, it turned out to be a toning pink one.

When the water cut off, a moment of silence followed, and the first thing you heard was:

"Fudge—"

Shortly after, Boothill came stomping out of the bathroom, jeans slung low, metal chest bare and gleaming, his hair still damp, dripping onto his shoulders and... unmistakably pink now. He stood there with his sharp teeth bared, not in a snarl but in that weird grimace he made when he was embarrassed and pissed off at the same time.

Don't get him wrong—Boothill had nothing against pink. He even liked it. Just not when he himself was colored pink.

"Now, can ya tell me what the forkin' hell happened to my hair, darlin'?!"