Slice. Rasp. Shudder. My hands shake. Don’t stop till the floor is littered with hair. My reflection recoils. My new fringe cuts across my forehead like a scar, and beneath it my eyes are visible. Too visible. They have seen too much. Scissors fall and clang against the floor like a plague bell, calling ‘bring out your dead’. But there is no coffin yet designed for a heart, nor soul.
Later I trim my fringe till it’s presentable. That’s all that matters. Nobody else will meet my eyes, those eyes, looking at me beseechingly from beneath my brunette scar.