I was no more than twelve when I discovered that cutting my hair didn't hurt. My parents were fighting in the living room downstairs. I was shut up in my bedroom, alone and momentarily forgotten. They didn't know that I could hear them. Or maybe they did and just didn't care. Maybe they thought I was too young to understand.
I stood in front of my dresser, staring at myself in the mirror. I kept making faces at myself. 'This is stupid,' I thought. I can't know whether I was referring to the fighting or my faces.
The distant sound of shattering glass interrupted my thoughts and triggered some sort of impulsive reaction. I hadn't even realized that I'd reached for a pair of those stupid pink Crayola safety scissors until they were in my right hand. My left hand clutched a pathetic chunk of ugly brown hair. I stared at myself in the mirror, feeling slightly dazed. Another crash from downstairs. My shattered family, as fragile as an antique piece of china. Closing my eyes, I let the scisso