Shambles, part 1

With fingers slippery from sweat, Lucy grasped the scissors. They were clenched tightly in her hands, hovering with their maws just shy of snipping away the hair. It was golden, and fell in thick curls halfway down her back. Lucy glanced at the mirror. It defined her. What would losing it mean?

Voices echoed in her head, ones that took her back to the full spectrum of emotions that her hair had invoked. From a young age, she'd been told to keep her hair long; it was ladylike. She'd received compliments for it for as long as she could remember. At the same time, all it did was drag her down and tie her to an anchor she'd never be unleashed from with it. Lucy knew how lucky she was to even have hair like this. The notion of cutting it was ridiculous. Wasn't it?

"Why would you want to cut it, Lucy? I wish I could have hair like that. Even in my youth, I don't think mine came close."
"Your mother's right. You should appreciate what you have, not destroy it."

Her parents' voices bounced around in her head, only adding to her anxiety. Her hair was like an exaggerated crown, giving her status among the popular girls, almost radiating her essence. But she didn't want to be with the "popular" girls. As with her hair, she stood for it because she felt obliged. It bound her to an image she didn't fit. She wasn't ladylike, and never would be. It was a far cry from being born in the wrong body, but she felt as if she had been slighted somehow: given a gift she couldn't refuse, but one she didn't want, either.

Lucy panicked. What would they think of her? Where would she fit? With her hair gone, would anyone like her anymore? Surely people had cut their hair before without alienating themselves as a result, but it seemed as if nobody could ever muster a compliment about anything else to her.

I can't go back. This is the one time I'll ever have the confidence for this. Don't mess it up. Just start cutting, and see where it goes from there, she reasoned with herself. With that, she tentatively closed the scissors, hearing a distinctive snip as it severed a large section of her hair with surprisingly little force. She loosened her grip on the locks just enough to let them slide through her hand, tickling it as they fell. She immediately dropped the scissors. Where the hair had been before now glared an obvious lack, stopping just short of her shoulders. She stared at the damage in the mirror, and felt it staring back at her, like an accusation, a conviction. Only then did the scissors finally hit the ground with a thump.