Hair Cut

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
She hates it now, her hair......

Submitted: August 28, 2016

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Submitted: August 28, 2016

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Hair Cut

 

She did not need a mirror for what she was about to do. Better not to see, really. A pair of sharp scissors, her hands and a brush – all of them right next to her, just waiting for her to act on her decision.

 

She reaches for the brush. This is a harsh brush with sharp bristles bought especially for this day. It is not gentle like the one she usually uses. It will be damaging to her hair, painful to her head. But that’s okay. She’d prefer to feel pain instead of the numbness that is currently taking her over. The strokes of the brush make a ripping sound, and plenty of strands are trapped, to be torn out swiftly by the roots.

 

It takes a while for her to remove every tangle. She has hair that hangs down to her waist in gold streaked brown waves. He loved her hair and that is why it has to go. She is shedding away her hair as he has shed his hands of her.

 

A tear forms in the corner of her left eye. She angrily brushes it away and reaches for the scissors. Fingers as close to her scalp as she can get them, then snip – a long tress of hair falls to the ground. She has made a start. She is now committed to seeing this job through.

 

Snip, snip, snip.

 

The scissors pick up speed. Very soon she finds the floor around her covered in those beautiful tresses. But they are not beautiful, she reminds herself. They are a weapon, a weakness – their loss is her power.

 

Can she remember a time when she did not have long hair? No. Even when the fashion was to go short she had stuck with it. All through her childhood her mother had insisted that she never had more than the ends trimmed, and then only twice a year.

 

She remembers a boyfriend from a while ago who would grab her by the hair whenever he’d had a pint or two too many. That had often been more painful than the fist that would follow. She can still remember carefully teasing her hair into a high ponytail in an effort to stop these attacks. That had been an idea destined for failure – her entire head of hair had become an easily grabbed weapon to use against her.

 

And now it was the cause of a different pain. If it hadn’t been for her hair she would never have met him, trusted him. This pain is so much worse. The deceit, the despair, the totally shattered heart – she will never be able to completely trust anyone ever again.

 

The scissors pause. She feels her head – she is almost half way through her task. Back to the cutting, the snipping away. He had so loved her curtain of hair, he had told her. Perhaps she should package it up, send it to him.....But she no longer knows where he lives.

 

He left with her; the blond with the shoulder-length bob cut, the blue eyes, the triumphant smirk in her direction. He left with her; the one who had been her best friend all through childhood, through school and through college. How could she have been so blind?

 

A few more snips and she is done. She runs her hands over her very short crop, looking for, seeking out, any strands that she has missed. She bends forward, gathers up the mountain of hair and pushes it into an empty trash bag. She will decide what to do with it later.

 

And now for the mirror. She doesn’t worry about how bad it might look. She really does not care. It is darker now, her hair. No highlights or anything, just the deep dark brown that naturally grows from her head. It can’t be more than an inch – maybe an inch-and-a-half – long, all over.

 

She looks younger, her head feels lighter, but her sadness shows more than ever. It is her eyes that give it away; the dark circles beneath them, their dull dead look. But that is okay. She will paint on a face that looks happy, confident, carefree.

 

She will make her mask, put on a smile, and lock all the pain away inside the cracked ruins of her heart. She will laugh, she will talk, she will be someone else. And no one will suspect the truth – that she is dead inside.

 

 


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