Foden-Vencil 1 Foden-Vencil 1

Noelle Foden-Vencil

Professor Melora Wolff

Childhood in Cinema 105H

Big Girl Scissors: A Defiance

One moment that stands out to my current self as a response to my own education and socialization would have to be the moment that I decided to cut my own hair. It was craft time at the Montessori pre-school center, and we were bestowed the honor of being allowed to utilize the sharp scissors. This was special because our usual scissor supply was mostly of the plastic variety, so the shiny nature of the scissors metal components were very, very enticing. To be honest, I dont remember the task at hand. I remember we were to cut along some dotted lines, and I remember that I chose a spot just behind the bookshelf to carry out my assignment. I sat in my nook, and I studied the scissors. I remember touching the blades with my index fingers, and I remember fondling the pink, rubber accents on the handle. These scissors were a work of art.

So, I start cutting things. I grace the paper with the mechanical genius of the scissors, I graced the book next to me with the mechanical genius of the scissors, and after a while, these things got boring. The results didnt vary, as each medium that I endeavored to cut was always paper. Justly, I changed my medium. Having been to the barber a couple of times, I believed that I was ready to take on the task of cutting my own hair. The fact that I did this behind a bookshelf makes me believe now, that I knew what I was doing, and that I knew that this was against what my teacher, Mr. George, would have wanted. So, I cut a solid 6 inches off of the right side of my head. Instantly remorseful for my deed, I held on to the detached lock of hair and threw it in the garbage. Unseen by Mr. George, I retreated back to my nook behind the bookshelf.

At this point I knew that there was a narrow chance I could escape punishment. How could I have been so stupid to abuse the power of the big girl scissors? I was never going to see them again. Unless I could somehow convince Mr. George that it was not me who had cut their hair. I had not finished thinking through my masterful plan when Mr. George had spotted the lock in the communal garbage can. He boomed: Whos hair is this? That was my qeue, I sprang up out of my nook and belted: IT WASNT ME MR. GEORGE! Confident I had deterred my assailant, I sat back down. Of course, Mr. George did not see past my rouse, and I was found out. Partly due to the lack of hair on the right side of my head, partly due to my insistent denial of what had taken place. I was sent home, and immediately sent to visit the barber by my mother.

This moment in my childhood would definitely be more appropriate as a long shot than as a freeze frame. A freeze frame would not capture the movement and to continuity that a long shot can achieve. A long shot would capture the process of my deviance, it would include the all important reasoning behind my actions taken, and it would show the reactions of my peers to my act of deviance.

She runs across the carpeted floor with the grace of a baby hippopotamus, and plops herself down in the most secluded area of Mr. Georges preschool classroom. She waits patiently as Ms. Mary, a teachers helper, distributes the metal scissors. The camera settles on the floor, and the girl is seen sitting with her legs sprawled in different directions. Her eyes widen as Ms. Marys side enters the frame. She leans down and hands the girl some large scissors. The girl grasps the tool, and brings it towards her face, mouth agape. The camera stays sedentary as she experiments with her new scissors. She leans left and right as she utilizes this new tool. She stops for a moment and looks around, checks for anyone else present, and touches her head. Stroking her long hair, her hand rises with the scissors and she carefully places a lock of hair between the blades. In one swift motion, she snips the lock and holds onto it. A light flashes across her eyes as she looks up, panicked. She scrambles out of her nook, and the camera pans across the room to show her frantically place the lock of hair in the garbage. She retreats back to her nook and the camera follows, smoothly. As soon as she sits down, she looks up and listens as a mans voice permeates the room, inquiring about the hair in the garbage. The camera does not move to show the man, and it stays on the girls face. She thinks for a moment and springs up with a look of determination. The camera stays sedentary, and she is heard volunteering the fact that the hair is not hers. She stays standing, and is followed out the door as the man, whose face does not appear in the shot, takes her by the arm and escorts her out of the classroom. Her peers faces can be seen as she exits, looking up at her from their tiny desks, eyes following her as she tries to keep up with being dragged out the door.