hair

If there was magic in those old scissors it was of a brutal and dark nature, for with a single snip (it seemed) she had become an entirely different person.

It was a momentary holding of my breath - a hope against hope, gazing at the wisps of auburn poking from under the prim and falling behind her ears and touching her neck. Maybe, yes maybe just - I mean, she could have, (always was the creative sort just look at these plants,) she might have wound her hair around a pencil or a paintbrush or - and just plonked a sun hat on over and -

"Are you alright?" She asks. "You look a little flustered."

Should have swallowed my tongue this morning.

"What? Oh, you know, busy day..."

"Fancy a cuppa then?" the smile lancing sideways.

"Oh yes, please."
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