The clippers hummed close to her scalp, their vibration oddly soothing. Water droplets still clung to her nose, a sign of the midday heat—or perhaps the tension that had finally broken. Her cheeks glowed pink, not from embarrassment, but from something deeper: liberation.
She had walked into the tiny Indian barbershop that morning with her friends, half-joking about a “fresh start.” But when the barber draped the white cape around her and asked, “Are you sure?”—she simply nodded.
With each pass of the razor, the weight fell. Not just her black hair, but the layers of expectation, image, and self-doubt she’d carried for years. She watched herself transform in the mirror: bare, bold, breathtaking.
Her nape now smooth, her scalp pale and exposed to the world, she smiled. It wasn’t for attention—it was for herself. Her friends cheered softly behind her, surprised at her calm, her resolve, her glow.
The eyebrows were left untouched—a quiet boundary she chose to hold. But everything else? Gone. Cleansed. Renewed.
She stepped out into the sunlight moments later, the breeze catching her skin where hair once lived. It was her first time feeling that kind of freedom. And it wouldn’t be her last.