Story for the day: Scissors

Scissors

                There seemed to be a phenomenon that took place for the commander every Frewyn winter. Over the frigid months, her hair had grown unconscionably long and in doing so had become more unimaginable than usual. It was one morning in midwinter as the commander was preparing for her daily training when the ends of her tousled mane had become caught on the ties of her pauldrons. She did her utmost to free them but there was nothing that would suffice in freeing them excepting a cut from her blade. She pined for the lost of her ends but it was only when she cut them off did she realize their exceeding length.   

                The tips of her dark locks seemed to be attached to everything as of late, becoming trapped beneath her when she sat or catching in doors upon entering a room. She was glad to be rid of them but when she studied herself in the mirror that evening, she resolved that for a warrior of good consequence, her unruly hair must suffer a shortening at least once.

                The commander ventured to Alasdair’s quarters to borrow a pair of scissors for the task for though she could have visited the groomer in the royal quarter, or could have Alasdair shear it as he was the self-proclaimed master of hair, she decided that no one would notice the unevenness of her incisions and she resolved to do it herself. She stood in front of the mirror and took the ends of her long hair into her hand, eyeing the proper space in which to make her first cut, but as the scissors made their first slit, there was a sudden rumbling at the door. Her attention was drawn and her instrument was put down. The hinges on the door to the commons suddenly were broke loose and a large, mauve-grey foot threw the door from its frame.     

                “Woman,” the Den Asaan roared, standing in the doorway to the commons with defiance, “you will not cut your hair.” He was just returning from a hunt with Unghaahi and had placed his hand on the doorknob when his scout’s ears heard the portentous sound of a head being unjustly sheared. In impulsive rage and alarm, the Den Asaan had kicked the door in and drawn his weapon, believing that his mate was having her hair cut against her will. He was prepared to fend off an assault but when he entered to find her the culprit, he grew livid and pointed the edge of his blade at her in warning.  

                “I promise I shall not cut it,” the commander said, taking the scissors into her hand once more. “I only wish to trim it.”

                “You are still performing the same action,” the giant contended. “You will leave your hair as it is.”

                “Because you enjoy it so?”

                “Yes.”

                The commander smiled at the giant’s fervency to keep her just as he liked. “You would say everything I do is for your enjoyment,” she smirked.

                “I would,” the giant growled.  

                “Well, I as a whole may be yours but what is on my body is mine, Iimon Ghaala.” The commander lifted the ends of her long hair and prepared again to cut them. She was impeded, however, when the Den Asaan advanced and thrust his blade at her.

                “Place those on the ground and stand away from them, woman,” he commanded her.  

                “I promise I will only take the ends,” she insisted. “My hair has always been unseemly, just as you believe it ought to be, but it’s become entirely too long. I will end up cutting it in battle accidentally if something isn’t done to avert such a crisis.”

                The commander observed that as she explained her reasoning for her unprecedented actions, the Den Asaan was hardly listening. His violet eyes were staring at the sway of her hair as it moved with each subtle motion of her body. The manner in which the ends gazed her full hips and flowed in a ripple of activity suggested its suppleness despite its nest-like qualities. She brushed her fingers through it to taunt him and with each patting of it, her mate’s eyes widened with a slight increase in hunger.

                “I think you prefer my unbound hair over the braided locks of your women,” she said, laying the scissors aside.  

                The giant placed his sword back at his side and approached his mate, taking the ends of her hair into his palm and wrapping its length around his wrist to press her against him. “It is more pleasing to grip when I want to pull you close, woman,” he purred in her ear.

                “Very well, then you cut an acceptable amount.”

                “No amount is acceptable,” Rautu said decidedly.

                “Then may I at least trim the front so that I am able to have some visibility in battle?”

                Rautu examined his mate’s thick fringe. It was growing quite long and he agreed that she might cut it with him as the supervisor of the event. He held the remainder of her hair in his hand, enforcing her to keep her promise, and he watched every delicate incision made. He reflected that if she had her hair bound as the Haanta had done, such a disagreeable activity would be unnecessary. He thought of how she might look and what style would suit her best and he concluded that if they were to ever return to Sanhedhran, he would make the proposal of her hair being molded so it could never again be shortened, making him eternally happy that his mate should keep every strand of her precious hair just as long as he preferred.