OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

seventy-seven.

AUGUST 16th, 1992, SEATTLE, WA

      THE FIRST THING Reagan did upon walking into her and Dave's bathroom was scream.

It was a bloodcurdling scream, more dramatic than necessary as she would admit later on, but it was unavoidable. Her eyes zeroed in on the bathroom sink, where amidst the white porcelain lay clumps of freshly sheared brown hair.

"What?" Dave demanded, whirling around to face her with scissors in his hand. She stared at him, horrified as she cupped her hand over her mouth.

"What did you do?" she whispered. Her voice rose in pitch when she spoke again. "What the HELL did you do?"

"Cut my hair," Dave replied naively. "You like it?"

Reagan felt her jaw pop open. If she hadn't been so horrified by what he'd done, she would have admitted that he'd actually done a pretty good job with the pair of desk scissors. His hair fell right at the nape of his neck now.

"Your . . . hair . . ." Reagan said, opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water. She held fast to the hope that the more she blinked, the better the chance of Dave's long locks magically appearing back on his head.

"It was getting annoying," Dave explained. He tucked back his trimmed hair behind one ear. "I could barely see on stage."

"Well maybe if you didn't thrash your head like a bucking bull!" Reagan spluttered.

"Hey, I thought you liked it when I did that," Dave shot back defensively.

She edged closer to him, letting out a miserable squeak. With one hand, she fisted a chunk of his between her fingers. A longing moan followed after another squeak.

"Reags, it's just hair," Dave said with a roll of his eyes.

"I loved your long hair," Reagan asserted. "It was my favorite. My favorite thing about you."

"Thanks," Dave said sarcastically. "Forget me being the father of your child and a notorious charmer. It's all about the hair. Are you still stuck in the eighties or something?"

"Ugh!" Reagan slumped forward against his chest dramatically and he scoffed, catching her upright.

"Come on, does it really look that bad?"

She peered up at him with hesitant eyes. It took a minute, but once Reagan had thoroughly inspected him, she decided regretfully that he did look rather good. The short hair suited him just as much as the longer style had. And it was still long -- sort of.

"No," she sighed. "You're still good-looking."

"Shit, don't sound so disappointed about it."

"If you cut it shorter, I'm going to cut something else off of your body. Something more precious than your hair."

"But whose loss would that be, really? Don't you think that you have a lot more to lose if you do that?"

"I'm not ruled by my sex drive, if that's what you're getting —,"

Reagan didn't have time to finish her sentence before Dave crouched down, swept his arms around her thighs, and threw her over his shoulder. She screamed and slammed the palm of hand onto his back as her hair fell into her eyes and the bathroom turned abruptly upside down.

"Let me down!" she screeched. Dave carried her into their bedroom, laughing freely and ignoring her demands.

"Apologize, first. And tell me that you love me."

Reagan knocked her fist into the small of his back again and growled. Her blood flow was coursing to her head at a quickening rate.

"I hate you, I despise you, I can't stand to look at you," she listed off. He plopped Reagan against the bed onto her back and laid on top of her, stroking away the stray wisps of her hair that had been snagged in her eyelashes.