Like wistful feathers, strands of coppery hair drifted to the floor. The lightness felt like freedom, and that mattered more than the fear.
The stylist’s eye met hers in the mirror, an eyebrow raised as if to ask, “Are you sure?”
He would never forgive her, but that was the point.
One thought on “Cut”
Note: I am considering this as my entry into a 53-word microprose writing challenge. I’ve dabbled in flash fiction in the middle school classroom, but such short pieces as this are new but incredibly fun and feel a bit like writing puzzles of sorts. The prompt for this, by the way, was “something short.”