Log 20

The case of the gay pair of scissors

Listening to: Ring My Bell by Anita Ward

The progress in my rustic town is sort of moving, and more than before, I can see many aspiring businesses emerging. But the masters are still thriving, looming. They’re the establishments rooted to this city like the bedrock of our peninsula. Landmarks for decades now, they’re the shops we instantly imagine when we need a tool from a particular trade.

So when one day I thought of having my very own sewing kit, Leni’s was instinctively the place to go. To many of us, mentally, traditionally, the only place to go. Located at the heart of the downtown commercial area, this two-story building sells everything to do with textile. From leather to pins to linoleum to every color and thickness of thread imaginable.

I bought my very own thimble. I don’t even know how to sew and yet I have my own thimble now. I figured I’d learn once I had a kit. This is all from my plan of “nesting” my room, being more independent, borrowing less from the house and, of course, seeing less from the people within it.

Black, white, blue thread, I bought. A tiny white bag to put them in, a seam ripper, a ball of yarn. And when I asked the lovely lady who was assisting me for the last item on my list, a pair of scissors, her face saddened suddenly— that simulated, concerned customer service face— and informed me there was literally one pair left.

She must have tried to sell these scissors before, and many times, but to no success. Still showing that anxious expression, she pulled from a drawer a small pair of scissors with pink handles and curved blades for a tip.

And then she said— the closest translation to English I can make— she said:

“It’s not really a masculine color.”

She showed me the tip and further added:

“And it isn’t straight.”

To which I immediately replied: “Sold! Give it to me. I’ll buy it.”

Now I have a lovely pink pair of scissors that’s not straight. Just like moi.

Kidding aside, this bittersweet story reaffirms my ongoing outlook that it isn’t just my family. The people in this town still consider pink a lesser color, a female color, the opposite of strength and power. It’s all boring and lame. And I can’t help but think, despite the slow progress, in many ways, we might be so slow that we’re going backwards.

I imagine this lovely, functional, efficient, pair of scissors left alone in a drawer, and many eyes that looked down upon them, and many mouths that frowned. How many papers would they have helped cut? How many threads helped tether? How many clothes helped sewn? How much productivity would they have helped contribute?

If that’s the case, let it be so. Let me reclaim the power of pink, so misunderstood in his lonely town. These scissors are mine. They’re my tools now. As I look at it nestled with my pens on my penholder, may it remind me always to stay pink and not straight!

Thank you for reading.