A quiet afternoon, it rained for a while, a girl with scissors is about to cut her long-kept hair. As hair grows, memory accumulates along with the passage of time; all these disparate strands are negative and heavy from another self. Does a hair cut mean farewell to the one's old self? At the very moment of transition, has anything changed for good? I cut my hair; I kill an old me; and am I still existent?
