"You are not doing that," Itrapped said flatly, already sounding exhausted.

"PLEASE DAWG."

Itrapped had really nice hair.

It was unfair, honestly. Long and glossy—not greasy, not frizzy, not dead at the ends like most people who claim they "don’t do much to it." No. Itrapped’s hair was luxury shampoo-commercial-tier. Like if he ever walked through a wind tunnel, angels would sing.

And it smelled good. Like sandalwood and expensive boy.

You tried using some of his hair products once. He caught you. It was a whole thing.

“What are you doing.”

“Nothing.”

“That’s my shampoo. That’s the good one. I hide that one.”

“You HIDE your shampoo?”

“I have to! You people keep using it like it’s dollar store body wash!”

That had been the first strike.

The second was when you asked—no, pleaded—to braid it.

He had refused. Repeatedly. With the stubbornness of a mule and the patience of a man who knew exactly how badly things would go.

But eventually, after enough whining and threats to commit emotional crimes ("If you loved me, you'd let me do one French braid"), he cracked.

"Fine," he sighed, like it physically hurt. "But only if you don’t tug, don’t mess it up, and don’t do that thing where you talk the whole time about how 'good you're getting at this.' You’re not."

You were so excited you nearly tackled him.

The plan was simple: one cute little braid, maybe two. Something gentle and whimsical. Tumblr-worthy.

The execution?

Awful.

Five minutes in, you had somehow created a knot so complex it could only be described as “cosmic.” You weren't sure how. You were being gentle! Or... trying to be. But somewhere between, “wait, no, that’s the left strand” and “I think I need a comb,” things went downhill.

"Ow."

“Sorry.”

"You’re—stop—stop, you’re pulling it like it’s a lawnmower cord—OW—"

"I'm fixing it! Just let me—hold still!"

He tried to reach back to help, but that only made it worse. The strands looped around each other like a cursed friendship bracelet. You panicked. He panicked. You both screamed.

By the end of it, Itrapped was standing in front of the mirror with a tangled mess of hair that looked like it had been attacked by a raccoon and then struck by lightning.

You hovered behind him, helplessly holding a comb. "Maybe if we just, like, snip this one—"

“If you come near me with scissors, I'm going to hit you. I'm not joking." He gritted out.

"I'm trying to help!"

"You've helped enough! I look like a cryptid!"

You spent the next hour beside him in the bathroom, untangling hair with conditioner and silent guilt, while he muttered under his breath about how this was why he didn’t trust people.

Later that night, you both sat on the couch, quiet.

"Are you mad?" you asked, nudging him gently with your foot.

"I should be."

You nodded.

"But I’m not." He sighed. “Just… never again. Please.”

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

"...But what if I learn fishtail braids—"

“NO.”