Ananya stood before the mirror, fingers tangled in the thick black strands that had followed her all her life. Every memory seemed woven into them — schooldays, festivals, heartbreaks, promises whispered under the stars. But tonight, the weight of it all felt too heavy.
She picked up the razor.
The first stroke buzzed through the silence, leaving behind a pale, bare strip of skin. Her heart pounded, but she kept going — strip after strip, the hair fell like shadows to the floor.
Each lock that slipped away seemed to take with it a piece of doubt, fear, or regret.
When she finished, she lifted her eyes.
A smooth scalp reflected the light. Her face, no longer framed by the familiar curtain of hair, seemed strange — but also fearless. She touched her head with both palms, feeling the warmth of her own skin, uncovered, unhidden.
She smiled. For the first time in years, the reflection smiled back without hesitation.
This was not loss. This was beginning.