"No, nope, not happening, not a chance," Mirabel said, staring at her sister. "Abuela would kill me."

"Oh, come on," Isabela said, her voice taking on a pleading tone that made Mirabel's automatic instinct to fix things itch. "It doesn't have to be perfect. I don't want it to be perfect. The more imperfect, the better. I just can't stand it anymore. I want it gone, done."

She pressed the scissors into her sister's hand and said the one thing Mirabel was never able to ignore.

"Please?"

Mirabel gave her a look that questioned Isabela's sanity, but she reluctantly took the scissors.

"Okay," she said. "How short do you want it?"

"All off," Isabela commanded, sitting down.

"Can I get a specific definition of that before I do something that gets me kicked out of the casita?"

"I want it so short that when I shake my head, it doesn't move," Isabel said, stony determination in her voice. "I still do that stupid, graceful, perfect flip thing on instinct. I'm so sick of it that if you don't cut it short, I'll get out the pruning shears and do it myself!"

"Okay, okay, I get it," Mirabel said nervously, picking up one of her sister's midnight-black locks and opening the scissors. "You promise no matter how bad it looks you won't get angry?"

"I promise."

"I'm holding you to that," she said.

Mirabel winced as she closed the scissors, letting the tendril fly away in the wind.

About fifteen minutes later, Mirabel said, "Um, all done? You want to see?"

Isabela lifted her hands and felt her hair with her fingers, her eyes shut. She gave her head an experimental toss, but her hair, now only an inch or two long all over, didn't budge. She laughed delightedly, rubbing her hands through her short hair and making it stick up at odd angles.

"No," she said, grinning at Mirabel. "I don't need to see it. I love it! Thank you!"

She threw her arms around her sister, then grabbed a handful of her hair from the ground and ran into the garden.

Later that day, Mirabel saw her sister's cut-off tresses hanging from one of the jacarandas. Looking out from her bedroom window, Abuela was watching birds building nests with them as Isabela sang happily, surrounded by her plants. Mirabel braced herself, but all Abuela did was shrug and smile.