Don't know why, but every time I need a pick-me-up, I reach for the scissors.
Usually, it's just after I've read some fashion magazine full of impossibly beautiful people with perfect skin and to-die-for bodies. And of course, amazing hair.
So then, I tell myself, I need something new.
Ergo the scissors.
A snip here, a slash here, some maneuvering elsewhere and I look up expectantly.
Something, some inner hope blossoms. And I run to the mirror.
Is that a stylish fringe I see?Or a sassy bang shaping my face in new, wondrous ways?
Am I a glamazon at last? Freeing my inner spirited self while shedding all that's old-fashioned and tired.
Yup, there is the small matter of tidying up those snipped-off locks lying forlorn on the floor.
And yes, the cut is inexpert. But what the heck.
There's something extremely liberating about brandishing those scissors.
Maybe it's my devil-may-care self surfacing. Or my inner hairstylist breaking out of it's chryalis.
Whatever. It makes me feel good.
