it's the lovely length of her hair that she truly despises. 'Honey Blonde', they'd call it. the shade, mellow and comfortable, that could slide around an angry face and give it softness or frame a plain one with plenty of character. the colour of salvation in a stack of pancakes piled ceiling high. the texture of straw that is dull, yet glossy and old, yet soft, fresh and clean. the length of pretty ribbons running through cities of gold, getting stuck in elevator shafts every now and then. the smell, warm and inviting, that her man loved having on his pillow.
with a smile, she picks up the scissors. in an instant her lovely hair is reduced to a messy pile of honey on the bathroom floor.