motionless, hardly daring to breathe, involuntarily trembling with tension. But her acquiescence was of no avail as the hand continued to squeeze unmercifully. With the first stabs of pain came the rationalization that the hand did not know its own strength, that it did not mean to hurt her. She gritted her teeth and became even more determined not to move. Despite the pain, she did not say anything. 

Although she was uncomfortable with the situation, she did not know enough to be afraid. Instead, there was only an uneasy excitement. To her right she glimpsed the doorway that presumably led to some inner sanctum. She wondered if that relentless hand was going to force her there, and she shuddered with some nameless emotion, still not precisely fear. Dread perhaps, with an element of curiosity. And surrender. She continued to glance about the room until her gaze caught on something and her heart gave an uncontrolled lurch. Her eyes locked on her sister, who sat playing happily on the bench in the back of the shop. 

snip. snip. snip. 

At the sight of her sister she experienced mixed emotions. There was an inexplicable guilt, and she felt dirty and unclean. But also, deep in her heart, she was afraid for her sister.  

Already the six-year-old with the beautiful, untouched jet-black curls was attracting stares that persisted much too long for idle curiosity. It was the staring that made her intuitively anxious, though she would have had difficulty explaining why. She quickly averted her eyes from her sister's guileless gaze, partly from the guilt and partly from shame that another human being should witness her humiliation.  

She would have been startled by her own expression. It was burdened with a weary, hopeless comprehension that should never have been seen in the eyes of one so young. Disconcertingly, this was the same expression in the dimmed eyes of the children in the mirror. At age eleven, they were still strong enough in her to cry out silently in impotent, infantile rage, "IT ISN'T FAIR!" Soon though, even this feeling of righteous indignation would be snipped away, and nothing would be left but the bitter cynicism that came with the death of the children inside her.  

snip. snipsnipsnip.  

She could see no reprieve from the situation. The thought of calling out loud, or trying to get away, did not occur to her. So she sighed audibly and deliberately relaxed her tense little body. The hand lessened its hold too, as if momentarily surprised, the merciless grip becoming almost a macabre caress. Then sensing her surrender, it squeezed harder and harder. This time, she did not even squirm . . . and the tears finally pricked behind her closed lids. 

SNIP. 

The door jingled as it opened, the little bell on top tinkling pleasantly. Suddenly, the relentless pressure of the hand disappeared as if by magic. She opened her eyes, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears of pure anguish. As her vision cleared, she saw the barber in the mirror, and beyond him, her father. But the sight of him did nothing except inspire more guilt. She knew that, with fatherly intuition, he would sense that she had been violated, and that he would turn away from her in disgust. She could not blame him; she felt contaminated. But he surprised her. He pretended that he did not know what had happened. He seemed natural, smiling when the barber said triumphantly, "THERE, ALL FINISHED!"  

Then he paid him for his services. 

snip. snipsnipsnipsnip.