HAIRCUT

I can feel my mother’s warm and fresh breath close to my face, my eyes are shut and my breathing is steady. The cold tips of the scissors are softly tickling my eyebrows, my eyelids and my forehead. I can hear my sister giggling in the background, but I can’t move.

My aunt always complained about the length of my fringe. “You look like a sheep!” she used to tell me, trying to hide laughter.  Normally I blushed in shame and drew a little smile. “When are you going to cut her fringe?” she asked my mother every month. After a few sentences I couldn’t understand, they would shake their heads looking at me and smile back. I never understood if it was a good or a bad sign.

Then, as usual and without a warning, my sister and I would sit on my mother’s dressing table with wet hair and water drops falling on our shoulders.  She would open one of the drawers and take out a pair of long silver scissors and a plastic comb. The combination of fancy and ordinary seemed odd and funny at the same time. We chat playing with our hair until she says “Now sit straight, close your eyes and don’t move”. Then it was just the sound of the scissors opening and the comb moving slowly down my forehead.

I knew the rules, I wouldn’t move, ever.