Brush.

The hands grip the wooden handle, firmly but with a precision that feels soft and deliberate. Carefully they lift the hairs, which fan out wildly like the leaves of an old, wise forest. In the silence, only the soft rhythm of breathing sounds, almost in dialogue with the soft “snip-snip” of the scissors, which move with tender precision through the soft ends. The silver blades catch the light and reflect it in small sparks, as if each hair contains the spark of a story, a story that is now being cut off and returned to the air.

The air fills with the scent of freshly cut fibers, an earthy aroma that mingles with the old scents of wood and days of use. Patiently, like a painter with his brush, the fingers bend each hair, releasing it at the right moment and shaping it, until the tips gently trace a smooth, harmonious line, the promise of renewed strokes and subtle touches. There is an almost meditative power in this moment, when the world stops turning for a moment, to witness the simplicity and mastery of this subtle ritual.

The last hairs fall, barely noticeable, like the first snowflakes, unobtrusive, yet indispensable. The work is done, and there it rests now, in a new balance, still and ready for the next journey, the next touch that still awaits in the unknown.