What the Scissors Took

Dear Lala and Abbie,

When Lala told me about the incident at the airport how the gate agent confiscated the scissors I had given you, and how you burned with anger at her I felt a familiar ache of recognition. It stirred an old memory, one long tucked away for years. A pair of scissors and a parade I had missed.

If I remember clearly, it was the procession of the Santo Niño, held every year in Palompon, Leyte. It was a parade of lights, where people of the Catholic faith carried the Santo Niño through the barrio, offering prayers for good fortune and blessings. To me, it was a spectacle worthy of devotion. I would stand by the roadside, reverent and wide-eyed, convinced that patience itself was part of the miracle. As a child, I wanted nothing more than to witness it.

The day before the procession was a humid afternoon, heavy with heat and promise. The ocean shimmered in the distance, its soft breeze carrying salt and comfort, casting a lullaby over the barrio surrendered to siesta. I lay on a banig mat spread over a newly waxed wooden floor, the surface still smelling faintly of effort and care. Mamu slept beside me, her gentle snores marking the time, a rare respite after a long day of teaching piano.

In her relaxed but warning grip were pieces of bamboo sticks we called tukug a quiet reminder that sleep was expected, not optional. I listened to the soft static of the radio, the familiar voices of an afternoon program floating in and out of clarity. Somewhere nearby, aunties moved carefully, preparing bananas to be turned into turon or banana cue for after-siesta merienda. Their motions were hushed, respectful of the hour. The town itself seemed to hold its breath, lulled by warm salt air, and the hush of the afternoon routine.

It was in that stillness that impatience crept in. A small rebellion. A pair of scissors. And later, the consequence I never forgot.

Slowly, with gentle eagerness, I rose from the mat, still wrapped in my favorite blanket, my teddy tucked under one arm. I crawled my way out of the room, careful not to wake the afternoon. Without much thought only the confidence of a bored child I slipped into the next room, where Mamu kept her sewing kit.

There, on the table, lay a pair of scissors, their edges catching the light, glistening with invitation. It was the kind of temptation a restless mind cannot resist. My small, determined hands reached for them, and before I could consider consequence, I was already snipping my hair, each cut made with the serious concentration of a ritual. I worked slowly, meditatively, convinced I was doing something important.

I was jolted from my reverie when I noticed a shadow stretch across the floor, long and unmoving. Mamu stood by the door, shock written plainly across her face. She was a soft-spoken woman, I do not remember ever hearing her raise her voice but what I remember most was the sound of that moment: a gentle, firm tone balanced somewhere between anger and amusement, as if she were struggling not to laugh.

She reached out and calmly took the scissors from my hand.

“Child,” she said in a hushed voice, “what have you done?”

She gently pulled me in front of a small mirror hanging against the wall. And there I was my head patchy, my scalp shamelessly exposed where I had cut too close, too unevenly. For a moment, I did not recognize the child staring back at me. She looked startled, unfinished, as if someone had interrupted her becoming. It was only then that understanding arrived, slow and heavy: I had done something that could not be undone.

When Papu came home that day, I could not meet his eyes. Then he laughed an unrestrained burst that startled me more than anger ever could. His laughter filled the room, loosening the tension, turning my shame into something survivable.

That night, when the Santo Niño passed through the barrio, carrying its blessings in candlelight and prayer, I sat behind the window. My head was shaved now, wrapped carefully in a towel, my small hands clutching the cloth as if it might protect me from myself. I watched the lights move past, flickering and alive, their reflections dancing in my eyes. I was still filled with awe, with wonder, even in my quiet punishment.

Lala, when I heard of your anger at the airport, I understood. Sometimes it is never about the scissors. It is about what they take away, the waiting, the anticipation, the promise of something beautiful just ahead. And it is about learning, far too slowly, how disappointment first teaches us restraint, and later, grace.

Years later I would once again have a shaved head not from mischief or impulse, but from necessity. And that time, I would meet my reflection with courage, hope, and faith.