“Shorter,” said Breda Grimm. “It grows like a weed.”

Molly said nothing. But when Mae began to clip, she winced—as when you cut your finger or scrape your knee.

The blood began to flow, dribbling first out onto the lavender cape, thin rivulets that splashed on the lino. Molly watched as each individual hair, swollen with it, began to drip and then to flow.

Read it in Cleaver Magazine