steve's head hurts. yeah, that always seems to be the case here — he's been prone to stress headaches for as long as he can remember, and between constantly running for his life and not knowing what's happening back home, he's under a hell of a lot of stress ... but, no, this isn't just a stress headache. this is a nonstop buzzing in his skull, an abundance of nervous energy that leaves him drumming his fingers against the half-rotten log he's seated on by the campfire and dramatically shifting every couple seconds as if sitting in some new way will alleviate his restless boredom (it doesn't). eventually, he can't take it anymore, and he's making an annoying little noise with his mouth as he turns to the nearest, most unfortunate survivor.
heather.
"hey! hey, i've got an idea." there's an excited sort of pep to steve's voice as he stands up, as if he's solving someone else's problem rather than his own. he might still think of himself as a babysitter of sorts when he's hanging out around here, but hey, he still needs to think about himself sometimes, especially when he feels like he's about to lose his mind from the sheer and repetitive boredom of it all. " — can i do your hair? i'm good at it, i promise." of course, with severely limited supplies, there isn't much that can be done ... but steve seems pretty confident about this, and it's better than just sitting around and waiting to die!
Heather didn’t like the campfires, sure they were a place to rest but they brought a longing sense of dread. A discomfort that would constantly gnaw and eat at her, she couldn’t sleep on the logs or the ground. The few times she had passed out she was immediately woken by graphic nightmares about Silent Hill. She had left that damn cults god useless, she kicked it in the face and this was the thanks she had got. She was faced with impending death every waking day, maybe for the rest of her days.
‘Sure know how to lighten the mood’ she told herself. She turned towards Steve, who had made his way into her thoughts now.
Heather smiled and tilted her head slightly, “you want to do my hair? Uh yeah go for it. I never do much with it anyway, I just kinda.. get-got. I got out of bed looking like this. What about you? What kinda crazy products do you have in your hair? Let me guess. It’s a wig.” Her smile widened and she chuckled lightly, but the laugh didn’t last long. “But yeah why not? Just don’t cut all my hair off with... whatever you could use to cut it off with..”
heather jokes about his prized hair being nothing more than a wig ... and with that, even though a more optimistic person may have perceived it as a compliment, steve's (deceivingly) happy-go-lucky attitude drops, the corners of his lips downturned and his bros furrowed in an expression of utmost concern, if not devastation, in the face of this scandalous insinuation. is he taking this too personally? oh, absolutely, he is ... but he's never had much, least of all here, so he doesn't exactly take insults lightly, even if they only exist in his head. "a wig? of course it's not a wig. does it look like a wig?" it's not mean to be sarcastic, or insulting — no, he just sounds concerned, like he's afraid he's been going through life with everyone thinking his hair is fake. that would be godawful news to hear, especially after his life is already all but over.
usually, steve keeps his hair care routine a secret. the only person he's ever told was dustin, in fact, and if he ever found out that kid told someone else, he would've kicked his ass, emotional attachment be damned. in the face of heather's accusation, though, steve immediately starts to spill his old hair care guide! and he sounds really upset about it, but he'll do anything to convince the other survivor he is not wearing a wig. "no, no, no. i used to use fabergé organics. got up early to take a shower with the shampoo and conditioner every morning, wait for it to get damp, and and do four puffs of farrah fawcett spray — not three, not five, but four, you hear me?" as if she'll ever be able to follow this advice, as if they'll ever get out of here. the thought seems to mellow steve out a bit ... but only a bit. his shoulders drop, and he sighs. "i mean, i can't do that anymore, obviously, but ... y'know, this is what i looked like when i got dragged here. minus all the, uh, dirt, and blood, and ... stuff. ahem."
the more he talks, the less he wants to think about it. and so, he tries to shake his head a bit, as if that will somehow help to calm him down. "it's whatever, okay? here, i still have this." this being ... a comb! he doesn't usually share this with anyone, just uses it to touch up when he looks particularly rough, but ... well, if heather is really such a neophyte in the world of hair care that she thought he was wearing a wig, then she definitely needs it more than he does. he sits next to her by the campfire, and sort of waves it around, albeit in a relatively collected manner. "you gonna let me use it, or ... ?"