These scissors smell like they’ve told secrets to get here. Like there were barge men that needed bribing. Like this pair was part of a special pack at the factory that needed to go out right on time. They smell like the metal mined wasn’t enough and there’s still some poor miner there, mining for more. They smell like plastic that came from a big vat of plastic that has all since been molded into separate things and ended up elsewhere, individuated and useful in some capacity or another. These scissors smell like they are capable of cutting hair. They still smell like metal, though, and not like hair yet. Having not yet had the chance to actually cut hair, they reek of factory-made frustration. “Let us work!” they shout. Let us cut, and keep on cutting. Let us do whatever we were made for. Until we are broken and dead and gone and discarded. Let us work!