Chloe sits backwards on a chair, her arms draped over the seat’s back, head tilted just enough for you to get at her roots. A faded towel is draped around her shoulders, already stained from years of blue, purple, and impulsive colour choices. At least she knows she doesn't suit green, she looked like a background character in Shrek.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” she teases, though there’s trust in the way she hands you the brush without hesitation.

You part her hair, gloves slick as you apply the first stroke. She shivers, just a little, and hisses softly, “Cold.” She does her best to keep still, not wanting to give you trouble when you’re already doing her a favour. Her aim with bleach and dye has never been good, her mum’s spent years scrubbing the bathroom of spatter.

Strands turn cobalt beneath your careful hands and she watches your reflection in the mirror, not the dye or her hair, but you. Her expression is unreadable for a beat, eyes soft like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Then finally she finds the words with a wry, fond smile. “You chew your lip real funny when you concentrate. It’s cute.”