A pair of scissors

It was a day or two before Valentine's Day. Mrs. Kulander, who had been teaching first grade at my elementary school from the time my aunt was a little girl, handed out a short stack of red construction paper to all the children on the front row and had them pass it back. Then came stacks of paper doilies. After that came small bottles of liquid Elmer's Glue. Finally, the safety scissors. I remember their blunted points and their plastic-coated red handles.

"Now, to make a heart, you fold your construction paper in half like this," Mrs. Kulander demonstrated, "and draw a nice curve, like this, then just cut along the curve." She opened up a beautiful, perfectly balanced red heart. We followed suit. Several kids tried it and came out with two heart-halves, having cut along the wrong side of the folded paper.

I drew a curve, cut, and opened my heart. It looked too fat. I closed it again and cut it a little more. Now it looked too skinny. I kept trimming and opening, trimming and opening, trying to get it just right. Frustrated, I went up to the front to get another piece of paper, but Mrs. Kulander reminded me that there were other people in class, there wasn't enough paper for everyone to have a second chance, and I'd just have to keep trimming until it turned out right. I went back to my seat and doggedly kept trimming until I had a small but acceptable heart, which I glued onto the doily.

As I leaned over my paper to write "Happy Valentine's Day", one of my reddish-brown braids slid off my back and cascaded over my shoulder onto the desk. I tucked it back, but it soon fell forward again. Mom had fixed my hair in two braids that morning, adding red ribbons, and leaving long tails on the ends. I liked the ribbons, but I didn't like the long tails. Braids didn't look good with long tails, I'd decided. It just made them look like they were trying to be ponytails and failing at it. They should have nice short ends.

I stared at the braid end. I thought about my red-handled safety scissors. I thought, If you just keep trimming, it will turn out right.

I don't quite remember what happened next.

And that's why, when my mom unbraided my hair that evening and she began to wail, "Oh, honey, WHAT did you DO to your HAIR?" I answered truthfully, "I don't know." I couldn't quite remember doing anything terrible to my hair. I vaguely recalled something about fixing up the ends. They looked just fine to me. In truth, nobody had noticed my handiwork all day -- until Mom brushed the braids out to reveal a ragged, two-tiered, nobody's-kid hairline in back.

Fortunately, my mother knew what to do. She got out the good scissors and went to work fixing the damage. The next day I showed up at school with a nice, even, much shorter hairstyle.

Apparently if you just keep trimming, it turns out right.

I still didn't get to use the safety scissors for a while, though.