The Shearing
The air was heavy in the old farmhouse kitchen — not with heat, but with silence, and something older. Something that hung between generations.
Michelle sat in the center of the room, surrounded by a halo of morning light pouring in from the window. Her long, dark hair trailed down her back like a woven record of years. Every strand carried something: rebellion, pride, pain, memory. And now it was about to be taken.
Across from her, her father Andrew stood like a monument — unmoved, unmoving. His hands were calloused from work, but his face bore the strain of someone who had tried for too long to carry silence instead of judgment.
“I told you,” he said finally. “Some things come with a price.”
Michelle lowered her head. “I’m ready.”
She wasn’t sure if she meant it. But she knew she had to be. What she had done couldn’t be unwound — not the recklessness, not the near disaster. This was not punishment, not really. It was offering. A sacrifice. A return.
Andrew stepped aside, and in came Adrian — quiet, respectful. He carried scissors, gleaming faintly like a ritual blade. Not cruelly. Ceremonially. Michelle met his eyes, searching for cruelty. Found none.
Adrian approached and took her hair in his hands with a strange gentleness, as though it were something sacred. And perhaps it was. He raised the scissors.
The first cut was startling. The sound was soft, but inside her, it roared — a severing. The lock fell to the floor, and with it, a weight. Not just of hair, but of defiance, illusion, youth. Another snip. Another fall. The past undone in slow, deliberate strokes.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, not from the loss of beauty, but from the unraveling. Each snip asked her: Who are you now? Without the old skin, without the shield?
She didn’t answer.
When Adrian stepped back, her scalp felt the breeze in a way it hadn’t in years. Vulnerable. Awake. She didn’t dare look in the mirror yet. Instead, she watched her father approach.
He didn’t speak. He sat on the bench beside her. Then, gently, he reached out — a hand to her shoulder. She flinched, not from fear, but from the weight of being seen.
“I carried too much pride in you,” he said softly. “And too much silence when you went wrong.”
Michelle’s tears finally fell. “I wanted to be strong.”
“You were,” he said. “But strength without wisdom turns wild.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a matchbook. Lit a flame. She watched as he took a small handful of the severed hair and held it over the sink. He set it alight. It burned quickly, curling, vanishing. A ritual. An end.
Michelle stood. Her reflection now showed something raw, stripped down, but not broken. A beginning.
“What now?” she asked.
Andrew looked at her, not with judgment, but with the quiet certainty of an old man who had finally let go.
“Now,” he said, “you grow again.”
Michelle sat in the center of the room, surrounded by a halo of morning light pouring in from the window. Her long, dark hair trailed down her back like a woven record of years. Every strand carried something: rebellion, pride, pain, memory. And now it was about to be taken.
Across from her, her father Andrew stood like a monument — unmoved, unmoving. His hands were calloused from work, but his face bore the strain of someone who had tried for too long to carry silence instead of judgment.
“I told you,” he said finally. “Some things come with a price.”
Michelle lowered her head. “I’m ready.”
She wasn’t sure if she meant it. But she knew she had to be. What she had done couldn’t be unwound — not the recklessness, not the near disaster. This was not punishment, not really. It was offering. A sacrifice. A return.
Andrew stepped aside, and in came Adrian — quiet, respectful. He carried scissors, gleaming faintly like a ritual blade. Not cruelly. Ceremonially. Michelle met his eyes, searching for cruelty. Found none.
Adrian approached and took her hair in his hands with a strange gentleness, as though it were something sacred. And perhaps it was. He raised the scissors.
The first cut was startling. The sound was soft, but inside her, it roared — a severing. The lock fell to the floor, and with it, a weight. Not just of hair, but of defiance, illusion, youth. Another snip. Another fall. The past undone in slow, deliberate strokes.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, not from the loss of beauty, but from the unraveling. Each snip asked her: Who are you now? Without the old skin, without the shield?
She didn’t answer.
When Adrian stepped back, her scalp felt the breeze in a way it hadn’t in years. Vulnerable. Awake. She didn’t dare look in the mirror yet. Instead, she watched her father approach.
He didn’t speak. He sat on the bench beside her. Then, gently, he reached out — a hand to her shoulder. She flinched, not from fear, but from the weight of being seen.
“I carried too much pride in you,” he said softly. “And too much silence when you went wrong.”
Michelle’s tears finally fell. “I wanted to be strong.”
“You were,” he said. “But strength without wisdom turns wild.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a matchbook. Lit a flame. She watched as he took a small handful of the severed hair and held it over the sink. He set it alight. It burned quickly, curling, vanishing. A ritual. An end.
Michelle stood. Her reflection now showed something raw, stripped down, but not broken. A beginning.
“What now?” she asked.
Andrew looked at her, not with judgment, but with the quiet certainty of an old man who had finally let go.
“Now,” he said, “you grow again.”
