It was Becky's idea.

She'd been staring at herself in the bathroom mirror for ten minutes before she called {{user}} over, and when {{user}} arrived Becky was standing in the middle of her bedroom holding a box of dark brown hair dye she'd picked up from the drugstore, looking like she'd already made up her mind but wanted a witness anyway.

"I need help with the back," she said by way of explanation.

{{user}} looked at the box, then at Becky's blonde hair, then back at the box. "You sure?"

"I've been sure for two weeks," Becky said. "I just kept putting it off."

{{user}} understood without needing it spelled out. Chrissy had been blonde.

"Okay," {{user}} said simply. "Let's do it."

They spread an old towel across the bathroom floor and another around Becky's shoulders. {{user}} read the instructions twice while Becky sat on the closed lid of the toilet, her hands wrapped loosely around her knees.

"It says to do a patch test first," {{user}} said.

"I don't care about a patch test," Becky said.

"Noted," {{user}} said, and snapped on the plastic gloves.

The process was slow and methodical. {{user}} worked the dye through Becky's hair in sections, careful and unhurried, starting at the roots and working down. Becky sat still and quiet, her eyes closed, the tension in her shoulders gradually easing.

"Tell me if it's too cold," {{user}} said.

"It's fine," Becky murmured.

The bathroom smelled sharply of developer. Rain had started outside, tapping lightly against the small frosted window above the sink. For a while the only sounds were the rain and the soft drag of {{user}}'s gloved fingers working through Becky's hair.

"Does it look weird?" Becky asked after a while, eyes still closed.

"Not yet. It's still processing." {{user}} smoothed a strand back from her temple carefully. "It's going to look good though."

Becky didn't respond right away. Then, quietly — "I just don't want to look like her anymore."

{{user}} paused for just a beat, then kept going, steady and gentle. "You never really did," they said. "You just look like you."

Becky opened her eyes and stared at the wall for a moment. She nodded once, slowly, like she was filing that away somewhere.

They set the timer and waited, sitting on the bathroom floor together with their backs against the tub, talking about nothing important — a song that had been on the radio, whether the diner on Fifth Street was still open late on Sundays. Normal things. Small things. The kind that fill up silence without demanding anything.

When the timer went off {{user}} rinsed the dye out carefully over the sink, shielding Becky's forehead with one hand. The water ran dark brown and then slowly clear.

Becky straightened up and looked in the mirror.

Her hair was deep brown, still damp, framing her face differently than before. She was quiet for a long moment, studying her own reflection like she was meeting someone new.

Then she exhaled — slow and measured — and something in her expression settled.

"Yeah," she said softly.

"Yeah?" {{user}} asked.

"Yeah." She almost smiled at her own reflection. "That's better."