20,209 / 50,000 (40.4%)

Her eyes were lowered looking at the ground when Lazaro came in. There was a mirror on the wall. “Celia, look up into the mirror.” She lifted her head; saw him standing there, a pair of scissors in his hand. Her eyes started to fill and she shook her head violently. “No, No, No. Please, Sir, do not do this to me. No, do not cut my hair, Sir. Please, do not. It is not fair. Do not. Please, Sir. Please.” Celia rose from her chair, turned to face him. Her eyes were wide, full of tears. “Please.” It was a useless cry. Lazaro stared coldly at her, pointed to the chair with his finger. Celia sat down, whimpering, trying to wrap herself into her body. She continued to shake her head. He came to her, pulled the hair back, and brushed it from her face. From his pocket, he removed a rubber band, pulled her hair into it. “Please, Sir.” He ignored her voice, opened the scissors, sliced across her hair, once, twice, three times. It fell to the floor, wafting down, slow. A raining puddle of red. It covered the floor it got on his boots. He shook them off and watched the strands float and rest on the tile.