The hum of the clippers echoed through the bathroom like a war drum. Mira stared at her reflection—half her head bare, the other half still tangled with thick, curly hair. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of the moment.
For years, her hair had been her armor. It framed her smile in photos, drew compliments from strangers, and softened her presence when she wanted to disappear. It was the part of her identity everyone adored. But they didn’t know what it cost her—how it masked the grief she carried, how it soaked up her silence, how it became a mirror she no longer recognized.
Tonight, under the cold, honest light of the moon, she chose something different. She chose herself.
With one final push, the clippers swept through the remaining hair. As the last lock fell into the sink, she felt a rush—not of sadness, but relief. Her scalp tingled in the open air, like a forgotten part of her body finally waking up.
She leaned in close to the mirror. Her face looked sharper. Bolder. Not less feminine—just more her. The world, for once, was seeing her without filter, without expectation.
Down the hall, her little sister peeked around the corner.
“You did it,” she whispered.
“I did,” Mira replied.
“Why?”
Mira turned to her, running a hand over her bare scalp. “Because I was tired of hiding. Because power doesn’t need permission. And because I wanted to remind myself—I’m enough, exactly as I am.”
Her sister smiled, then quietly stepped forward and placed a crown—plastic, cheap, sparkly—on Mira’s head. “Then you’re officially a queen.”
And Mira, bald by choice and radiant by spirit, smiled back. She already knew.