The Day of the Scissors
A few years ago, while tidying and folding clothes in the smallest room of my home, I noticed something unusual: silence.
No television humming in the background, no laughter or playful noise echoing through the house. Just quiet — too quiet.
My heart skipped. In my home, silence usually meant trouble. I dropped the clothes where they fell and hurried out, moving quickly toward the master bedroom.
As I reached the door, a sound reached me:
Snip. Snip. Snip.
I froze. My mind blanked. Slowly, I pushed open the door — and there he was.
“Hassan… what are you doing?” I managed, my voice soft, caught somewhere between shock and disbelief.
He turned toward me, big black eyes sparkling with pride. A bright smile lit up his face.
“Mami!” he exclaimed, as if he’d just created a masterpiece.
In one hand he held scissors, in the other a thick dreadlock. More locks lay scattered across the floor like fallen feathers.
My five-year-old son had given himself a haircut.
From his hairline to the crown, every dreadlock was gone, leaving him with the look of a balding little man. My heart sank, thinking of the three years I’d spent caring for his beautiful shoulder-length hair. But as I looked at his joy — his complete satisfaction — my sadness softened into laughter.
I mirrored his grin. If I couldn’t put the locks back, at least I could help him finish what he’d started.
So we sat together, trimming and shaping. It took more than an hour — full of giggles, little prizes for his bravery, and a gentle lesson about sharp scissors and permission.
By the end, he was beaming. I was too.
We had lost the dreadlocks, but gained a memory that would last forever.
