This is what Charlotte writes.

09.20.07

You can’t do that. I stared at myself in the mirror. No, really, you can’t do that. This was a battle of wills. I’m telling you…you. can’t. do that. My eyes narrowed. So did mine. I watched my hand come slowly up into the mirror, watched the scissors gleaming with a sinister silver shine. Outside of the mirror they were fuzzy, out of focus, half-real, but inside the mirror they were sharp, ready, snapping. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as I brought them closer and closer to the hair that hung in dark, wet clumps around my face. The metal was cold against my cheek as I could see it sliding behind and in front of the over-long bangs. No! A last protest. A last, futile protest. I could hear, see, feel the crunch as the blades met, slicing strands. Amputated hair dropped out of the mirror and disappeared. I didn’t break my gaze. The staring contest continued and neither one of me was going to be the first to break. I watched as the scissors moved again, higher this time, and more of my hair fell away. My other hand entered the mirror as I lifted the locks from my neck, and then slid out of focus as my eyes blurred and tears slipped from my eyes. I could no longer clearly see the scissors, my hair, or myself to see if I was crying, but the scissors kept cutting and soon it was impossible to gather my hair in one hand because the ends kept slipping free. Suddenly the reality of what I had done set in and I heard the startling crash of metal hitting porcelain sink. I closed my eyes against the mirror, against the truth. I didn’t need to see to know that I had lost. I stepped away from the counter until my back hit the bathroom door and I slid downwards to the floor and let the tears fall until there weren’t any left.