The first time she cut her hair she didn’t do it herself. Sitting in the hairdresser’s chair that was high enough for nine-year old feet to dangle freely from, she felt the excitement race down her spine as she felt the heavy weight of her hair for the last time. The hairdresser placed the scissors just below her ear in silent confirmation; she smiled in reply.

“Such beautiful hair—are you sure you don’t want to leave it longer?” But she just smiled into the mirror again and shook her head—no. She had heard of butterflies. Changes were made with sacrifices. And, like a caterpillar emerging sleepily from a restraining cocoon, she too would see the world differently. Maybe, it would be the world that saw her differently.

And maybe, that would solve everything. As she felt the first of the weight falling away, she grew certain of it.

The hairdresser used silver scissors that he wielded with expertise. He moved in deft strokes that left a straight curtain of hair, pausing every now and then to sweep away the locks that littered the floor.

The way they seemed to coil as they fell reminded her of snakes. Hadn’t Medusa perished for the very reason of spying her horrendous reflection on the battered surface of a shield? Maybe she wouldn’t feel like turning to stone every time she looked in the mirror anymore.

And if she squinted just so, she could see the coils writhing in a desperate dance to flee. She imagined she was setting them free.

Maybe it was best that way for both of them.

The second time she cut her hair she held kitchen scissors in her hands. Feet that had trodden eighteen years stood firmly planted in her room. A small, battered mirror was propped up on the dresser in front of her. She could barely make out the ribbon that she had tied to mark her sacrifice in the dim light.

But she didn’t dare meet her eyes for fear of turning to stone.

She knew of butterflies; knew that they changed and died soon after; knew that they were really no more different than caterpillars, that they were suspended by iridescent, gauze lies.

The scissors were blunt. Straining, she hacked away, almost tearing chunks of her hair out, and leaving rough edges behind.

But no matter how much she squinted she could not see the undulating dance of the coils of bronze snakes as they fell to the floor.

They were already dead.