Which bright spark touched a lovely soft T-shirt and decided it needed a scratchy little bastard sewn inside? You have to wonder. The fabric feels gorgeous. The label sands your neck. And there you are, twitching one shoulder while trying to have a normal conversation.
We'll happily name the culprit. Labels inside clothes are public enemy number one for us Magikitos. Boxers, T-shirts, trousers, coats. Not a single arse is safe. You put on layers to keep warm and every bloody layer has brought its own weapon.
The one at your neck pricks the bit you can't reach. The one at your side waits until you sit down. And the one in your boxers has an aim most darts players would envy. You're politely greeting the neighbour while silently swearing about the manufacturer's entire family.
Some of them unfold, too. Pull one corner and out comes another bit. Then another. Then another. Are these trousers or have you tucked the deeds to a farmhouse in here? My thighs are right next to each other, mate. There's no room for a library.
“Fermín, have you finished pulling that label out?”
“Hang on. There's more on the back.”
None of us has ever woken up fancying a good read of our boxer shorts. Yes, we know it tells us how to wash them. Put it somewhere that doesn't scratch, then. Fuck's sake. We want to wander through the woods, not learn languages with one hand down our trousers.
Hacking it off doesn't end the misery either. You leave that stiff little corner by the seam and now it scratches even more. Before, you had an annoying label. Now you've got half an annoying label and you've done unpaid work. Tempting to go starkers and let whoever invented it get dressed instead.
The good scissors, mind
That's why we have special sewing scissors. Small, sharp, with gold handles. We keep them in a pouch. Nobody uses them to open parcels, cut cardboard or trim their fringe. Those scissors remove labels. Some things are sacred in this house.
We spread the clothes on the table and lift the label away from the fabric. One of us holds it while another carefully frees the little threads attaching it. Without taking the garment's seam apart. We came here for comfort, not to wander about with a nipple hanging out.
“Come on, out you get, you little shit. You've scratched me for the last time.”
Once the last label drops, we put the T-shirt on and slowly roll our shoulders. Nothing pricks. Nothing rubs. Oh, that's fucking lovely. Fermín walks down the corridor with his arms in the air. We let him celebrate. Everyone has their little victories.
Then we gather the labels and burn them in the workshop fireplace. We sit watching them disappear, thoroughly pleased with ourselves. We've still got a bone to pick with those caps attached to bottles. But that afternoon, no scrap of fabric was going to get on our tits.
Until we went to put the scissors away.
Fermín stuck a finger into the pouch, screwed up his face and pulled out a sewn-in label.
“What's this, then?”
We stared. The pouch for the label-removing scissors had a fucking label.
“Fermín, don't put that fire out yet.”
