It’s over in seconds.
Chunks of afro and permed hair cushions your feet like Kankan.
It’s oddly comforting.
But you know they’ll ask.
“did your husband give you permission to cut your hair.”
The same way they said, many months before, “You better watch it, you’re adding o, isn’t your hubby complaining?”
Now, you’ve lost the weight.
You raise your arms to observe your armpits. Those would need trimming too but not with a scissors.
You reach for a shaving stick as you avoid looking at where your breasts used to be, severed but not with a scissors.