The first lock fell quietly.
It surprised Mira how soft it sounded—barely a whisper as it slid down the back of the chair and settled on the tiled floor. She had expected something louder, something more dramatic. But change, she realized, rarely announced itself.
She watched her reflection as the barber paused, waiting. Her eyes looked steadier than she felt. Thirty-five years old. A life carefully built around expectations—what she should wear, how she should look, how much of herself she should hide to make others comfortable.
“Go on,” she said.
The clippers hummed again.
Hair that had taken decades to grow disappeared in seconds. With every pass, her scalp emerged—pale, unfamiliar, vulnerable. The woman in the mirror looked sharper somehow. More honest. There was nothing left to frame her face, nothing to soften it. Just her.
She thought about how many decisions she’d made for other people. Jobs she stayed in. Silences she kept. Smiles she practiced.
The clippers reached the crown of her head, and suddenly the weight was gone—not just the hair, but something heavier she hadn’t known she was carrying.
When it was finished, the barber brushed her neck gently. Mira ran her hand over her head, fingers tracing skin that had never known air before. It felt strange. Cold. Liberating.
Outside, the wind touched her scalp, and she laughed—actually laughed. People glanced at her, some curious, some confused. She met their eyes without flinching.
For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she was performing a version of herself.
She was simply there. Uncovered. Unapologetic. Free.