The scissors are never sharp enough. The hair comes off in short clumps, chunks really. Once there were clippers, with an electrical buzz-buzz, to do the job. They are no more. Many things are no more. Memories. Most of those I don’t miss. I chose to discard them. To shove them away. The first two mares of the bloodline. Lost to disease. Only the third, youngest, remains. Youngest is a strange way to define her now. She has long since reached her prime, as have I. We have both lost too much, and mellowed from our mutual mania.
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