The clock down the hall struck two, each chime sounding heavy in the empty house.
I walked into my master bedroom and locked the heavy oak door.
On the marble vanity sat a pair of small, silver grooming scissors, the ones I usually used to trim my mustache before board meetings.
I picked them up, my gold wedding band catching the pale autumn light.
With my left hand, I grabbed a thick tuft of my gray hair, pulled it tight, and snipped.
The blades made a dull, dry sound as the first clump fell into the white sink.
I did not look for symmetry, nor did I use the hand mirror to check the back.
Instead, I cut at random angles, leaving the left side noticeably shorter than the right, with jagged ridges near the crown.
A handful of silver strands clung to the collar of my silk shirt, but I did not brush them away.
