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Handicrafts turned to fisticuffs when I showed up with a Mohawk.
 I had felt I must cut so much. I was stuck under locks, and I cut free. I left a dividing line: my polarizing hair.
I showed up late for weekly handicrafting. Paper dolls of felt -- cut-outs of red felt -- fell and made a red puddle. Flat limbs punched up. Amy had dropped them. She said, "I loved you for your hair," and she chucked her scissors at me, whereat they snagged my sweater.
The others quit knitting. My hair divided by taste. The No-hawks tackled me and severed my Mo'. The Pro-hawks applied room-wide the mohawk style with force and scissors. The No-hawks countered with baldness. Aggressive snipping of needlework followed, and of clad attire, and of body hairs located variously.
Among scraps of fabric, used up and useless, we collapsed flat. What was left to cut up? We lay until we couldn't.
Hand to hand to hand, we held on and helped ourselves up in a handcuffed stand.
"Amy: amie," I said.
What was left I left.
Knit fragments.
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