shattered scissors, an essay

the memory starts clearly aged ten. kept in the fitted cabinet, second drawer down, mother’s scissors. i guess they were around before in a more muzzy state in mind.

she may have kept my fringe tidy when i was not taken off to the barber in the village. he used a plank across the arms of the chair to seat me. i was small then.

she said that hers were special, hairdressers’ scissors. we were never to cut paper with them, yet we did. once i saw her cutting greaseproof; different rules apply.

we had only one pair. just one pair that i remember. i felt that mum gave them great importance, transfered this feeling.

i wish i had kept them, even with the damage. the incident was one afternoon .

a lamp needed moving, plug removing and my brother put it off for various reasons. we heard the noise, the bang , we saw the feathers.

those days many people had budgies, ours was blue usually. i think green was a different price?

so mum cut the electric wire with her special scissors to remove the plug, still plugged in. a hole then in the blade. mother put to bed, we probably took her tea. the budgerigar tidied and settled we all moved forward with experience.

i wonder still if this is why i collect scissors here.