The mirror was old, its edges clouded with time, but it reflected the truth clearly. Two women stood side by side in the quiet corridor, the early light spilling in like a blessing. One was nervous, fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl. The other stood calm, steady, already certain.
The razor hummed softly.
The first lock of hair fell to the floor. There was no gasp, no tears—only a long breath released. With each pass of the blade, something unseen lifted: fear, attachment, the weight of months that had been heavy on the heart. The air felt lighter.
When it was done, she touched her scalp, smooth and unfamiliar. She smiled—surprised at herself.
The other woman stepped forward next. This time, there was no hesitation. Her head had been shaved before; she knew the feeling well. For her, it was not loss but promise. A ritual of standing strong when life demanded it. As the last strands disappeared, she straightened her shoulders, as if reminding the world—and herself—that strength does not need ornament.
They looked at each other then and laughed softly. Not because it was easy, but because they had done it together.
Later, walking down the corridor, sunlight caught their bare heads, and neither felt exposed. They felt free. Hair would grow again—everyone knew that. But what they carried now was deeper: courage shared, dignity claimed, and a quiet understanding that sometimes, letting go is the bravest act of all.