You grip the scissors with the confidence of a surgeon, position them at that perfect angle, and in one fluid motion they betray you completely—suddenly you're having a full conversation with your palm about mortality. The package sits there unopened, waiting patiently while you're in the bathroom running your hand under cold water and Googling "how deep is too deep." Three minutes later you're back with a butter knife, which somehow feels safer, which is objectively insane.