My hair is too long. Far too long. It is long enough that when I twist it up and try to stick it in a clip, some part pokes out somewhere like a spray of feathers. Upon discovering this this morning, I searched for headbands, and found none. I pulled out a bejewelled dragonfly clip and spent approximately 15 minutes trying to get it to hold a substantial amount of hair off my face, only to fail, and hope that styling product and inertia would be enough to keep my hair practical throughout the day. So far, so good.

Why the angst? Why can’t I just get a haircut? Well, since before I was born, the hair of the women of my house was trimmed by only one high priestess of the Scissor. And while her ways are often arcane, tradition has long bound me to her. What entreaties or offerings might ensure a perfect cut, none can tell, for such blessings were fickle at her altar. Only I carry on the tradition now, the last of my house to live in the district of this priestess’s temple.

What madness led me to accept my sister’s entreaties to visit her hair-priestess in Seattle, I know not. Worries deep-seated and mediocre cuts long past prompted me to follow my sibling to this new shrine. And lo, though the young priestesses there had elfed their hair in strange unnatural ways, yet still the skill of Scissor was strong in their hands. My hair was shorn to perfection, and even now, many moons later, it looks passing pretty when left by itself. This cut was a blessing divine.

So now I languish in the environs of my native temple, unwilling to try my luck again for an uncertain prize. What new temple must I try, or how long must I wait to again visit the shining Scissor shrine of Seattle’s City?