Looking in the foggy mirror, Jane held her dark hair up in one hand and a pair of old craft scissors in the other. Taking in a deep breath and letting it go, Jane took a moment to process what she was doing.

     Her hair was beautiful and stood out as her most distinguishing feature. When people thought of Jane Matthews they thought of her hair- pitch black, waist length, and soft to the touch. If she shortened it, if she did as much as alter it in any way, shape or form, she would be indistinguishable, bland, and lost in the ever-growing sea of plain.

     But she was unique.

     She had a way with words like no other and if you approached her to talk you would be entranced with the way she strings phrases together- sentences with a value weighed more than gold produced effortlessly.

     She read anything she could get her hands on, and if she read something she particularly liked she would read it over and over- the words residing within the depths of her mind.

     She loved nature, so much that she started her schools first environmental club and continued to run it despite only garnering a measly five members.

     She was unique in every way, shape, and form- but you wouldn't know that. No, you would be just like the rest, too enthralled by the surface level to dig any deeper.

     With all this in mind and more, Jane brought the scissors higher and higher until they reached just above her shoulders. Abruptly she began sawing through her thick hair, loose pieces continuously falling to the tiled floor. 

     When done, Jane was left with a jagged, uneven mess. 

     Examining her hair up close, Jane fell into a hysterical fit of laughter. If you looked at her now your eyes wouldn't be glued to her hair.

     They would be drawn to her smile.