No. Don’t leave me here, not now, with your old phones and cinema tickets, your unused condoms and nail clippers. I’m part of you, part of your body, your hand, your fingers, your skin. Without me you’re nothing. A nobody.
Don’t listen to what they say. My blades, my handle, my score, my eye rings – they complete you. You don’t need anyone to tell you that. You don’t need their job. You’re fine without them. I’m fine without them. Together we’re one. We’re perfect.
Think about your life before you had me. You don’t want to go back to that. ‘Course you don’t. No.
That’s it. Pick me up, slide your thumb through there and your finger through there. Feel me. That’s right. Snip. Perfect. Listen to me. How good does that sound.
Now go out, yes, and cut. You don’t need them and their hairdressers. All you need is your hands and me and together we can cut anywhere. Anywhere at all.
That’s it. Come on. Let’s go. Keep me in your jacket pocket and when you see someone do what you and I were made to do. Cut, snip, trim, design.
You don’t need money. It’s not about that. It’s never been about that. What you do is art. That’s why they got rid of you. They couldn’t handle your skill, your passion, your genius. With every snip you showed them up for who they are. Amateurs. But you – you’re a miracle. Yes. A protege, a gift from God to the hair of the world.
Don’t give up. Don’t hide your talent. Don’t be ashamed. Show everyone who you are. Show everyone. Right now. Yes. On her.
Look. She needs a snip. She needs her hair shaping. Look at the frizz on her head and shoulders, the split-ends all over her coat.
That’s it. Snip her. Good. Perfect. That looks a million times better. You know it does. Don’t pay any attention to her. She’ll thank you later. You know she will. She’s running now, but she’ll be back. She’ll want you and me together, moving around her hair, shaping it while she looks on in wonder and admiration.
Her too. Go for her. That mane down her back. It’s a disgrace. Snip it before anyone else has to suffer it.
Good. Lift it up and – yes. Wonderful. That metallic slice. It’s what I was made for.
Ignore her. She doesn’t mean it. She’ll change her mind. She’s screaming now but she’ll soon stop. Look at the way she’s touching her hair. There’s love there already. No. She’s happy. It was a surprise but she’ll come round, calm down. They always do. We were meant to be together. Yes.
Quick. Find someone else before that man gets to us. Her. Over there. Cut. Snip.
Yes. No. Don’t. Leave him alone. Leave me alone. Don’t separate us. His skin – it’s part of me. I need him. And he needs me.
Your hands – what are they for? Not for hairdressing. No. Stop it. He’s mine and I’m his. They wanted their hair cut. They needed it cut. They’re just not used to him, his genius. That’s all. And a genius needs to work. Why not in the street?
No. Don’t part us. Put me back in his hand. Let us work.
Look at what you’re doing to him. Look at the tears in his eyes, his hanging head. You’re ruining him. You’re ruining both of us. Listen to what you’re making him say. No, I don’t care. He doesn’t mean it. No. Not at all.
We are one. Perfect. No. Don’t say that. Don’t. How could you?
Don’t listen to him, officer. Don’t listen. He did it. Not me. I am only a pair of scissors.
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