“Please don’t,” I could barely look at her, couldn’t take the pleading and couldn’t bear the tears that gathered in her eyes or the gentle, but compulsive, wringing of her hands, “You don’t need to do this.”
My mouth set, lips pursed and locked, my hands clenched and controlled by both fury and a despair that threatened to drown me. My wretched heart thudded against my chest echoing the blood pounding through my veins and her voice cut through the tension, “Please don’t do it…” this time her hands shook as she roughly wiped mascara across her cheek.
My eyes stung but my grip tightened, my fingers, hot and slippery, but secure as they clutched my weapon of choice.
She turned away, grief consuming her, and I was glad I could no longer see her flood of tears as I stared resolutely in the mirror, seeing nothing but my own blurry image staring back, and the scissors cut…and the first of many fistfuls of my long, gloriously long, auburn hair fell to the ground…
Photograph by Bekah Shambrook