Scissorhands

More than ten years ago, Tatay gave us new scissors. Mine was yellow, Manong's was red: or perhaps, it was the other way around -- I'm not really sure now. History has a way of deleting precious colors from memories.

My father didn't exactly know that deep inside his two cute children -- I was the cuter, and still am -- were terroristic tendencies to cut anything that could be cut. And so, Manong and I, with our scissors, cut pieces of paper from books, Nanay's flowers in the garden, etcetera, etcetera, until our options were exhausted.

"Why don't we cut this?" My brother pointed at his hair. My eyes glowed with excitement, and my fingers couldn't resist the urge to trim it, like a bush that has grown uncontrollably for ten years. You get the feeling.

"SIGE!"

Then, we were giggling with immeasurable delight, and eventually found ourselves cutting, bit by bit, strand by strand, each other's hair. We saw bundles of keratin-rich cells fall to the floor, and yet we still continued with our barbaric activity.

"Lance, won't Nanay get mad at us?"

"Why?"

"We're making a mess -- O, wait, let's hide it beneath the bed."

I don't exactly remember what happened next, but I'm sure our parents were shocked when they saw us with haircuts so obscene, so not aesthetic, and so horrendous that we had to be rushed to the barber as soon as was possible.

From then on, we had to live with short hair -- I, Manong, Sean and even Tatay. It was not until my brother decided to grow his hair when he stepped into college that the family tradition of everyone (except Nanay) going to the barber shop for a haircut ceased.

I can't imagine myself with long hair. I'd probably die.