she always had admired girls with bob cuts. there was something very refreshing about them; they seemed freshly foreign and regal. now, her hair had recently been cut quite short. at least it was quite short to her mother who detested her daughter's obsession with such a boyish look. it was bad enough she was already so skinny. her inability to gain and hold onto weight had left her breasts small teacups, her hips narrow highways to her one defining female part. and it wasn't like she couldn't carry off a shorter hairstyle. it was just that her strikingly classical features morphed into an androgynous visage to accompany her slim frame.

lola dompe had done it. cut her hair, that is. she marvelled at the elegant pixie cut, printed pictures of her muse, and planned outfits in her mint to compliment her ideal style. 'no,' her mother had said. 'you should strongly consider getting just a simple trim.' she wouldn't say no. she knew her daughter was too fragile for that. she would just burden her with disappointment, hoping that that weight could somehow fill in her curves. her mother mourned the loss of another female even though the blood continued to flow from between her slender legs.
and so she took matters into her own hands. and then scissors. and then bits of hair, frizzed and uneven, snippets of her girlish charm. the pieces fell everywhere. the tiny cups of a bra left carelessly on her dresser-top gathered the feathery remains, building a soft nest in her breasts' indentations.

perhaps her hair spoke for more than her appearance. the scissors chopped clumsily through the thick wet darkness, like a bushman tearing through a jungle, her mother shaving her secret hiding place. the frontal portion of her hair was easy enough to trim. it was easy to see in the mirror and quite accessible. it was the back that presented a challenge. her hands moved unguided, poking the back of her neck, claiming clods of hair. she ran her fingers across the edge of her work and felt the jagged peaks and valleys. but it was alright. she thought, 'it's better this way.'

'what will you do next, shave your head?' her mother remained in a state of shocked awe, lamenting for her daughter's death. but that was simply out of the question. there would never be a shaved head. it was not cleanliness that she longed for, but rather a release. she had evolved with this hair cut. no longer confined as a woman she drifted into ambiguity. and they all saw her around, reveling in her trimmed, pruned, genderless perfection. in a way she had died. but there was order. there was control. and there was beauty.

sort of a short story i am still working on.