Anyway You Cut It

In a previous exposition I made mention of losing something very dear to me (my hair). Here’s something else important that invariably manages to get lost: my scissors. And oh, this is a painful thing to recount to you. I don’t know of many things I own that I treasure more than my scissors. There is a permanent, reserved space for them on the bookshelf above the computer desk. When I need a pair of sharp scissors, they’re always right there in their designated spot (well, almost always).

One day my wife needed scissors to cut material for a dress she was in the process of making; she had misplaced hers, so she asked if she could borrow mine. I made the mistake of telling her, “Sure, I’ll go get the ones from the computer desk.” I fetched them and then carried them down the flight of stairs on the second floor to the basement, where the sewing machine is located. “Please put them back on my computer desk when you’re done with them.”

She never got done with them. She had I don’t know how many sewing projects lined up. After finishing all of them (but one), she asked me where I had the scissors stored. I told her where I kept them. She then said sweetly, “Dear, won’t you carry them up there for me? I’ve just got to finish sewing this last…” The only way I could guarantee they would get back home was to transport them back myself, which I did. I made the fatal error when I informed her of their permanent resting place. She now knew where she could always retrieve a pair of sharp scissors if she needed them.

After losing 3 pair, I then opted for the only option left to me. I began to hide them in various places around the house known only to me and not to her. This was the only way I could be sure my scissors would be there when I needed them. This arrangement was tedious, but proved successful until my memory banks went through the crash of ‘29. They failed me; I couldn’t remember where I placed the scissors; and I went into a Great Depression.

I went to the 50 & 100 (used to be 5 & 10) for the 4th time and bought myself another pair. The handles were later inscribed with “paper cutting only”. Then I put a small cross & skull sign below their slot on the computer desk. I arranged a night out with my wife (some would call it a date, I hesitated to designate it as such) for the next evening. We went to her favorite restaurant, I treated her to her favorite dinner and dessert, and after the waiter had taken away our plates and glasses and had cleaned the tabletop, I reached over and took her by the hands and fondly whispered, “Honey, I love you very much.” She reciprocated and said, “I love you too, dear.” Then meekly and gently I plead with her in a soft voice but with some firmness, “You remember those scissors you borrowed to finish your sewing project with?” …”Sort of,” she murmured. (I knew she remembered them better than sort of). Well, I’ve decided to let you keep them, because you’ve lost your sewing scissors. But I absolutely have to have a pair of scissors for my projects, whenever I need them. I’ve purchased a new pair specifically for my projects. See here, inscribed on the plastic handles it reads: ‘Scissors for cutting paper only’. Let’s make an agreement, ok? You can have the pair you borrowed from me, and I’ll keep these in the slot on the computer desk. I won’t use yours; you don’t use mine, ok?” The arrangement was signed and sealed until she asked, “By the way, where are the scissors I borrowed from you?” Those were the ones I’d hidden and couldn’t remember where I last placed them… So the whole thing started all over again.