Cutting

The hair sticks in spiders to her shoulders. More? I say, and she closes her eyes and grits her teeth. Yes. I won't say it again. Later, in bed, she looks like a lesbian, tongue wild in rage. Am I still pretty? she says. Well. Not as much. We have sex, the sound of drunk girls in the window. When she falls asleep I grab the scissors again, cut down to her lovely skull.