Edward, pale-faced boy, who are you trying to be? Your black hair sprouts outward like an untrimmed bush, and each finger is a blade. Clicking and creaking, your sharp fingers fly across the bushes, and the women's hair, and the dogs' coats, and never miss. But you slice your own face. Why? How many years have you had to become an expert at cutting, clipping, chopping, ageless one? And still you do not know how to keep yourself from slicing. Your own blood seeps out, red slashes on your white face. The girl's blood pools in her palm. You do some things so very well, yes. You do them so well that you cannot stop doing them--but then, knowing when not to do something is key to doing it well.
So maybe you don't even cut well, because you cannot stop yourself, no matter how much you would like to. Then you would be like everyone else. You, extraordinary, aspire to nothing less than unattainable normality. Your scissorhands can do what others' flesh-fingers cannot, and in turn, human hands can do things scissorhands cannot. There is a balance, isn't there?
But no. The hand is an invitation, a bridge, a door. Hands hold, stroke softly, touch tenderly. But you, Edward, have no palms to receive a gift, and no fists to give a blow. Your scissorhands can neither open nor close. Instead, they are always bristling. They stab, not punch. They slice through skin, instead of trailing along its surface. No matter how you reach out, your hands cannot connect.