Anaya stared at her reflection in the mirror, fingers tracing through the tangled strands of her hair. It had once been her pride, a cascade of black silk that she nurtured with oils and combs. But lately, it felt heavy—like a burden she didn’t want to carry anymore. Each morning she looked at it, she felt the weight of other people’s expectations: how a woman “should” look, what “beauty” meant, and how femininity was defined by something growing out of her scalp.
One evening, after another long day of pretending to be the version of herself others wanted, she made the decision.
She pulled out a small pair of clippers, her hands trembling at first. The buzzing sound filled the room, sharp and electric.
With the first stroke, hair fell in clumps onto the floor. She froze, staring at the strip of bare skin left behind. Strangely, instead of fear, she felt something unexpected—relief.
Stroke after stroke, she kept going, watching her old self fall away in strands. The mirror reflected a new face, one she hadn’t met before—raw, unhidden, powerful. By the time she finished, her scalp gleamed smooth under the light.
She touched her head and laughed softly. No more masks, no more weight. She slipped on a pair of round sunglasses, swiped on her favorite lipstick, and walked out of her room with her chin high.
The stares she got the next morning were sharp and curious, but none of them mattered. For the first time, Anaya wasn’t carrying anyone else’s definition of beauty—only her own.
And it was enough.