Your stop for the annual poetry fic challenge!

Eventually Heather's hair is dark again, and she needs to buy dye. Somehow she talks Douglas into coming with her to the store.

"Blond is blond," Douglas grumbles, but looks over the different shades anyway. He reads the labels, squints his eyes at the sample colors, shakes his head. "Honestly, I can't tell these apart."

"Really? I thought police were supposed to be good at that sort of stuff." It's easy to tell when Heather is smiling, and as he glances at her Douglas isn't surprised to see that Heather has a full-blown grin on her face. "Or is that an old-man thing?"

Douglas rolls his eyes and turns to the dyes again, glaring at one that claims to be a special kind of platinum. Or something.

"It could be," he replies, snatching the dye box and turning to toss it to Heather. "Wanna bet it won't make any difference what that precisely is?"

Heather's grin crumbles into a grimace. "You want me to try this? Just like that?"

"Why not?" Douglas shrugs. "If it doesn't look good you'll just grow it out again."

Heather sighs. "Maybe you really aren't good for this."

"See?" Douglas grins and pushes his hands in his pockets, turning around to see where the check-outs are and if there's anything interesting near them. "Old-man instinct."