fiskars.

it started as a trim with teal fiskars ' an antidote for the hot day, in the sea on the beach.
i sat on a wall with the sea to my thighs and trimmed a bit carefully. i finished and put the scissors back in my bag, wiping and rinsing away countless annoying black hairs from my hands an dlegs. i started to think about liamàs words that morning, when i told him i badly wanted to cut it again 0 ' wait til monday we shall see if marilia minds or not' i thought about cutting it monday and having to clean up all that hair twice, about how hot it was with this thick black sweater on my head, about what people in italy would think, what my family one million miles away would think, what the people now staring at me on the beach would think and i said no. this is stupid.
i have wanted this for a long time and i have to do this for no one else.
i grabbed the sandy kindergarden scissors, turned my back to the voyeurs aka creepy old italian men, sat down in the sea and watched black flowers fall away and separate, swim to shore, drown in salt and float motionless save for an underlying rhythm.
i saw my shadow on a rock wall. it was spiky and made me smile. now i do catch myself ciritcizing my reflection and think back to my key and the silliness, the smallness of a worry about the level of beauty of the face on this body.