A short story which turns the trauma of hair loss on its head. Pun intended.
She slammed the door behind her and threw her bag to the floor in the middle of the room. As she leant her back to the door something rattled, something crashed, something smashed in the gloom as the bag rolled to a stop. She breathed deeply, once, a great sigh, and let the tears flow from her eyes. The day had been less than perfect.
Feeling her way around the room in the darkness she carefully lit the candles that clustered atop every flat surface available. The warm glow soothed her, a little. She was in her place, safe, where no harm could come to her. When her task was complete and the room smelt softly of melting wax, she slumped to the floor in the middle of the room. She stared intently at her reflection in the small mirror leaning against the wall.
Pretty, or so everyone told her. Under the smeared makeup and behind the running eyeliner, anyway. Her thick, dark hair fell around her, long, clutching at her tears where it brushed against her face. It was beautiful too, or so they said.
She didn’t feel beautiful though, not after today.
A cigarette would calm her fragile spirit, she thought, as she reached into her bag. She delved deeply amongst the junk she carried with her everywhere. Her hand grasped the cold metal and plastic of the scissors she found within. She pulled them out to look at. Turning them this way and that, watching the candlelight reflect and play on the sharp metal. She stared at them almost as if they were alien to her.
She placed her delicate fingers through the rings of plastic that formed the handle and grabbed a thick strand of hair with the other hand.
Carefully, she began to cut.
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