I lifted the scissors to my hair. It had begun to grow like wires bent in awkward and untameable directions had been stuck into my dry dry scalp. Disastrous!
I wished there was someone I could blame for the state of my tresses, or someone I could beg to restore my hair to its former luxuriant glory. But there was no one responsible except me, a fact I had somewhat grudgingly accepted.
I had always loved the sound of scissors snipping though hair. Now, I hesitated, unsure about the extreme vanity that was making me lop of most of the fuzz that covered my head.
Start small, I told myself. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, pulled a few strands taut, and gingerly edged the twin blades shut on them. I heard a snap, and felt a shudder in my hand, and a pain in my foot. Obviously, this made me open my eyes.
What I saw made me raise an eyebrow: the scissors were broken, and one blade lay next to my foot, which had a red patch where the blade had struck it.
It appears that my hair can never be cut again. Fan-freakin-tastic!
Day 49: Does gender matter? A series of tweets