maylor | oneshots

Once a poodle, always a poodle

A U T H O R S
N O T E - Third-person point of view x

Also this story contains smut

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Brian has never in his life thought about murdering someone.

Not when Freddie had sold off half of his closet to buy himself a new pair of shoes. Not when Roger dumped a pot of coffee on his notebook, halfway through revision for his semester exam. Not when John had drunkenly thrown up in his room and then decided to let him perish from the smell.

But everyone is bound to break eventually, and it's no surprise that the first person Brian May wants to murder is an underaged child.

The gremlin in question is currently sat crying at the other end of the sofa, scissors in one hand and half of Brian's hair in the other. The guitarist has a hand hovering over his head. Close to the place his locks used to be. Space which is now empty.

He hasn't had the time to check at himself in the mirror, but he knows it's terrible by the sheer amount of hair, and the worrying amount of length, his little cousin is holding in her pudgy fists. He stares at her horrified, as she weeps her heart out, wailing about how she didn't know that snipping his hair with scissors would make it shorter.

His heart aches for the little runt. Yearning to hold her close and tell her that everything is going to be alright. It's just hair, nothing they can't fix. But his brain is going at a hundred miles per hour screaming about how his head feels wrong, wrong, wrong and it's only when he runs his fingers through his hair, and he feels how extremely short it is, that Brian's reality comes crashing down on him.

He bolts out of the living room and into the closest bathroom. His family members scream after him, worried about the fact that their boy just ran past them, shoving every person aside. He bursts into the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror, doing his best not to cry. He is a twenty-eight-year-old man, in a rock band, with a best selling album which has been topping the charts for almost three weeks now. He can't start crying because of a hair cut.

But oh god, is short an understatement.

It's curling around his face in an unruly fashion, framing his face like a fucking cloud, and making him look ridiculous. One half of his hair is long a pretty, the other half looks like Brian's worst nightmare.

His mom bursts into the bathroom then, worried and with her hands covered in onion and mince. And as she sees her son, she lets out a soft gasp and covers her mouth, "Oh no, Brian, baby, what happened to you?"

Twenty-eight years of experience and hardships are not enough to keep him from bursting into tears the second after the words leave his mother's mouth. To Hell with it, he thinks, rockstars can also cry.

His appointment at the hair saloon went as incredible as anyone could have expected. Meaning it went like shit. Not only was his usual hairstylist, Gema, away for the holidays, but he also had to endure MTVs top fifty songs of the past ten years. List which contained an ungodly amount of Queen songs. Usually he would have been thrilled at the prospect, but at the moment it seemed like the world was laughing at his face as the video for Killer Queen (and his beautiful hair) was shown in the large television on the wall.

They tried to salvage as much of his hair as they could, which wasn't much, and sent him home with a bag of chemicals meant to help with the growth of his hair.

Everything felt so wrong now that he didn't have his hair. His neck had become so extremely sensitive to temperature, and he felt so naked with his ears out in the open. The one good thing about the whole ordeal was that absolutely nobody stopped Brian on his way home. Something that hadn't happened to him since before the release of A Night at the Opera.