The Doctor sat on the park bench on a miserable autumn morning, his head in his hands. He had just emerged from the TARDIS fresh from another regeneration, having been mauled by a race of mutant gerbils.
He knew he always had to trust fate as to how his molecules would throw themselves back together, but that didn’t mean he had to like the random new body he ended up in.
“You alright, duck?”
The Doctor looked up to see an elderly lady peering at him with concern. Her Jack Russell terrier was more interested in sniffing the dustbin.
“My hair!” the Doctor groaned. “Why does it never turn out how I want it?”
“It’ll be those modern salons, I bet,” the lady reckoned. “Cost the earth and don’t know what they’re doing, half of ‘em.” She fished about in her handbag for a pen and notepad, wrote a phone number down, tore the strip off and gave it to the Doctor. “Here, give Shirley a call. She comes and does me in my kitchen once a fortnight. She’ll sort you out.”
“Er, thank you,” the Doctor replied in bemused politeness.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with your hair that I can see. Honestly, you kids!” she chuckled as her dog started to tug on the lead, keen to drag her off to the next bin. “You shouldn’t let them pick on you for being ginger!”
Did she say ginger?
But he could have sworn he'd got...
The Doctor fished about in his pockets and found a small mirror. He looked at his new head very carefully.
The woman had said ginger, but he could only see grey.
“Oh no!” he cried. “I’m ginger...