Rancor

rancor \RANG-ker\, noun:
bitter resentment or ill will; extreme hatred or spite

Pulling at her hair, wanting to tear it all out, she faces the mirror and keeps yanking, until her scalp is throbbing, and she stops, finally imagining it coming out in fistfuls. She goes to the desk in her room and starts opening and closing the drawers, looking. Frantically pilfering through the odds and ends inside each, until she finds them. The scissors: metal, long, and sharp.
She goes back to the mirror. Looks at herself. Pulls up a few locks of her hair with her left hand, holding the shears in her right. And as she cuts, she looks into her own eyes, and sees them determined, suddenly clear. It feels right, as the scissors slice through the strands of brown.
At first she only cuts to the halfway point of the length of her hair, but as the first bunch falls to the floor and the leftover flops to her cheek, it's still too long, and there's not enough hair on the wooden floorboards, so she grabs more of the stuff still attached to her head and starts cutting closer to her skull. Up and around her ears to the nape of her neck and the top of her forehead, she cuts, until there's nothing left for her to pull up and stretch out, nothing more for the teeth of the scissors to bite into, until, for all intents and purposes, she is bald.
Her head is naked and feeling the coolness of the night air inside her room, she reaches up and rubs, enjoying the new sensation. Yes, she's enjoying this: looking different, feeling different. It's not her in the mirror anymore. She bends down and begins picking up what she's cut off, puts it all in the garbage. All the anger has left her, but she knows it's only for now, and somewhere beneath her newfound freedom, she wonders what next she'll have to cut off to feel happy again, to feel anything at all.