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Cinematic night film still, photorealistic, 35mm, low available light, natural film grain, shallow depth of field, real skin and real hair, deep in the small hours. The scene fills the whole sheet edge to edge, only the outermost border of the paper ripped into jagged torn edges with small bites missing and loose white fibres, slightly crumpled, laid on black. A slender woman of about thirty, narrow shoulders and slim arms, kneeling on bare floorboards, cutting off her own long hair. Soft oval face with gentle rounded features and a soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, wet and red-rimmed, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks. Mascara run in grey streaks down her cheeks, dark plum lipstick, mouth pressed shut hard, jaw clenched, tears falling, brows drawn together, eyes fixed on the hair in her fist. Washed-out black velvet off-the-shoulder top, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, short black lace skirt, sheer black tights laddered at the knee, one boot kicked off. Clean pale skin with only freckles, chipped black nail polish. Her copper auburn hair is already hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper. One fist drags the last long rainbow hank out to the side, pulled taut, the scissors closing on it at her shoulder. The hair. The floor is drowned in it: long hair heaped in deep drifts around her knees, spilling across the boards to the walls, coiled over a kicked boot and the fallen lamp. It loses its colour as it lies: the freshest lengths beside her still faintly rainbow, red orange yellow green blue violet fading along each strand, the drifts further out drained to pale ash grey, like hair left out for a hundred winters. One pinch at her left temple has already grown back, long past her collarbone, in fresh vivid rainbow bands, brightest at the root, the brightest colour in the room. She has not seen it. As always it will. Behind her an empty cracked gilt frame leans against the wall, holding only peeling wallpaper. Light. A small lamp knocked over on the floor, a dusty rose silk scarf half slid off its shade, throws low warm rosy light across her face, hands and the drifts of hair; cold blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain. Dim, heavy shadows, every strand readable. The room. A shabby attic room, peeling floral wallpaper with water stains, dead roses in a glass jar on the windowsill, her midnight blue overcoat with a faint fleck of tiny stars over a sagging velvet sofa. Lonely, beautiful and wrecked, by eryn
