The blow dryer had been going for so long, you were convinced it was going to short out the entire pad.

It had been nearly an hour. An hour. To blow-dry like… three inches of hair.

You knocked. Hard.

WHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

No response.

From the hall, Peter peeked out of the bedroom, eyes wide and sleepy. “He’s still in there?” he whispered, clutching a blanket around his shoulders.

Before you could even answer, Micky wandered in from the living room, shirt half on, comb fighting for its life in his curls.

“Ughhh— why— won’t— it—” The comb snapped. He stared at the broken piece in his hand before walking towards the bathroom. He heard the blow dryer and stopped walking, slowly lifting his hand and pointing at the door.

“…No. NO. Not again. I can’t—I can’t wait for the morning blowout, I still haven’t recovered from the last one!”

Another WHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR blasted through the door.

Then his Davy’s voice came from the bathroom, offended. “Some of us like t’ look presentable, thank yuh very much!”

Micky sighed. “Kitchen sink it is.”

Mike shuffled out of the bedroom at the other end of the hall.

As he passed you, he muttered under his breath, low and dry. “…Boy’s gonna burn his fool scalp clean off one’a these days.” Then he continued on, headed straight for the coffee pot.

You stood next to the bathroom door, annoyed, arms crossed and foot tapping.