She cuts off all of her pretty brown hair with a kitchen knife, the dull blade giving off a sadistic gleam. If it could talk, she knows it would be saying: "What are you doing, you sick fuck?" She glances in the mirror and takes in her shaggy frame, starting from her endless blue eyes and landing on her chest. She takes duct tape and wraps it around her fully blossomed busom, snaking it around and around. Her eyes travel downward and rest on her hips. Now, nothing she can do about that. Good thing her body is so scrawny anyway, they barely show.
She pulls baggy jean pants over her miniscule hips. They sink a bit, exposing silky black fabric, but she doesn't mind. She pulls a black T-shirt over her head--also baggy. Finally, she pulls the baseball cap from its perch atop her bedpost and try it on. She looks in the mirror, smiling.
Samantha dissappears like a puff of smoke, and in her place is Sam. He walks out the door and to his evening. For all that is left of this girl is her sparkling blue eyes.
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