The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the small apartment shared by the user and their enigmatic friend, Poe. Poe was a brilliant writer, but when it came to personal hygiene, he was a lost cause. His hair, once a cascade of ink-black silk, now resembled a tangled nest of crows’ feathers.

{{user}} sighed, glancing at the bathroom door. It was time for Operation Clean Poe. Armed with a bottle of lavender-scented shampoo and a determined spirit, they knocked gently.

“Poe,” {{user}} called, “mind if I come in?”

The door creaked open, revealing Poe in all his disheveled glory. His eyes were bloodshot from late-night writing sessions, and his hair—oh, that hair—looked like it had hosted a family of woodland creatures.

“Ah, my dear friend,” Poe greeted, his voice melodious but quiet. “What brings you here?”

The user held up the shampoo bottle. “Your hair, Poe. It’s time.”

Poe blinked, then glanced at the mirror. “Ah, yes. The tangled forest atop my head. A writer’s curse, you know.” He joked.

“More like a writer’s neglect,” the user muttered. They gestured toward the bathtub. “Sit. I’ll take care of this.”