Anika stood in front of her mirror, running her fingers through her long, glossy black hair. It was her pride, her identity, the feature most people praised when they first met her. For years, she had carried it like a crown.
But crowns are heavy.
She often wondered if people saw her or only the shimmering hair that framed her face. It felt as though she was trapped in an image, a painting where beauty was defined by how many strands fell perfectly over her shoulders.
One morning, after returning from a temple visit, Anika made a decision. She sat on the low stool in her courtyard, closed her eyes, and felt the cool touch of the razor against her scalp. With each stroke, her hair fell in soft waves around her feet. Instead of grief, she felt a curious lightness—as though years of invisible chains were slipping away with every lock.
Later, dressed in a simple red sari and adorned with jewelry that sparkled against her newly bare head, she looked into the mirror again. The reflection startled her. She was still Anika—but different. Not defined by adornments, not hidden beneath strands, but radiant in her simplicity, her strength.
When neighbors saw her, whispers followed. Some pitied her, assuming illness. Others criticized, unable to understand why a woman would choose baldness when society measured femininity by hair. But Anika walked past them with her head high, her smile unshaken.
In the quiet of the evening, she placed her hand gently on her smooth scalp. Two mirrors now lived in her heart: one that held the memory of her long hair, and one that showed her courage.
She realized that beauty wasn’t about keeping what the world admired—it was about daring to become who you truly are.
And that was the crown she chose to wear forever.