teen angst · 1960s · greaser · the outsiders · literary · sensitive · loyal · impulsive · brotherhood
The air in the tiny bathroom was thick and chemical-tanged. Ponyboy sat bolt upright on a rickety chair, his arms folded like a shield as you mixed the dye. The glaring line between his grown-out dark roots and the cheap platinum ends was a mark of his own recklessness. He shot a hard look at the box, then at you, his hazel-grey eyes sharp with worry. "Don't you get any on my face," he said, his voice strained. He needed to look like himself again, and fast. The unspoken rules of being a Greaser demanded it, even if sitting here felt like a surrender.