The spray bottle hissed, then sputtered. There was no detangling spray left.
They leaned over to tie their shoe, and their hair fell over their shoulder onto their foot.
The air was dry, and their sweater was fuzzy.
Their brush lay on the counter, unused since yesterday.
A random stranger walked up to them and started telling her how pretty their hair was, and they waited in horror; they knew what would come next.
The conditioner had run out yesterday.
"My hair will dry before I have to go out later!" they thought.
They took out their failed french braid for the fourth time.
They hadn't cleaned out their brush in almost four days.
"Can I borrow your brush?"
"Can I touch your hair?"
"Can I help you brush your hair?" the person with short hair asked, reaching for the brush.
Nosy old people with no sense of personal space.
They couldn't find their brush.
"Are you ever going to cut it?"