The Cut (Razors)

The Cut
            “Do you trust me?” Your voice is thick from attempts to keep from laughing, though somehow like the voice of someone basking in newfound power; we both know that’s not the case. Nothing we have between us is based on fear or loathing, like so many superficial relationships we endure out of bare necessity.

My downcast eyes catch a reflected gleam from the straight razor that is about to be used to cut my hair jagged. In a second, the blade is centimeters from my bare throat. I slowly raise my eyes from the floor and look into the antique wooden mirror sitting on the desk, finding your amber eyes.

            Not daring to nod or even speak, I hold your eyes with mine for a second or two before your lips part to give a quick flash of the white teeth below; you know I do. I force myself not to smile back. This is trust, unmarred by hesitation or dishonesty. Without warning, my long hair is gently pulled upwards before five inches are lopped off in one confident stroke.

My green eyes follow yours as they trace the line the razor followed; your lip curves almost imperceptibly downwards, meaning a slight mistake had been made. Without bothering to lift my hair away from my neck, your dominant left hand comes up making an arc that barely clips anything but it must have fixed the oversight, since you allow a ghost of a smile to grace your lips before grabbing a pair of scissors and fixing the small splits.

 

Author's Note

This was a Creative Writing assignment to write something that revolved around a quote you would never forget. I'd love some feedback, seeing as I have yet to turn it in, and the field is open for revisions. Comments? Questions? Random jabbering? Feel free.
--Jenn