Scissors

I was no more than twelve when I discovered that cutting my hair didn't hurt. My parents were fighting in the living room downstairs. I was shut up in my bedroom, alone and momentarily forgotten. They didn't know that I could hear them. Or maybe they did and just didn't care. Maybe they thought I was too young to understand.

I stood in front of my dresser, staring at myself in the mirror. I kept making faces at myself. 'This is stupid,' I thought. I can't know whether I was referring to the fighting or my faces.

The distant sound of shattering glass interrupted my thoughts and triggered some sort of impulsive reaction. I hadn't even realized that I'd reached for a pair of those stupid pink Crayola safety scissors until they were in my right hand. My left hand clutched a pathetic chunk of ugly brown hair. I stared at myself in the mirror, feeling slightly dazed. Another crash from downstairs. My shattered family, as fragile as an antique piece of china. Closing my eyes, I let the scissors do their work. As I sensed the opposing blades close on my frazzled strands, I felt a sort of thrill. Nothing hurt. There was some satisfaction in it, some sense of destruction. I opened my eyes, looked at the lock of hair that I'd just cut off. It just sat there on my dresser, as pointless as those safety scissors, as pointless as their fights. I smiled, grabbed another chunk of hair, cut slowly, with a purpose. I tenderly cut off strand after strand until I looked like a bad Barbie doll fashion experiment.  

Ten minutes later the shouting and the crashing stopped. It was almost eerie, how quiet the house was. Coming out of my trance, I vaguely wondered if they had resolved their issue, or if Mom had walked out again. That was always her defense. I heard footsteps on the stairs, but I couldn't tell if there were one or two. My bedroom door swung open; Mom was in the doorway, silent. So she didn't leave. Good for her. Then I noticed her face, her hands.

"Did he hit you?" I asked.

I could see she was trying to be strong, courageous; she didn't want her little girl to see the pain, the fractured confidence that once seemed so impenetrable. She just stood there while tears rolled down her discolored cheeks. Then, "What did you do to your hair?"