Teja Shri had worn her hair like a signature for as long as she could remember. Thick, wavy strands that caught the light in Jodhpur's golden afternoons, falling just past her shoulders in a way that made people turn and say, “You have such beautiful hair.” It was part of her—professional photos for work, family gatherings, even the quick selfies she posted on quiet evenings. She’d spend time oiling it with coconut and hibiscus, braiding it loosely before sleep, letting it air-dry in the desert breeze.
But over the last year, something had changed inside her.
It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a growing restlessness. The weight of routines, expectations, the endless “shoulds” that piled up like sand against a wall. She was in her late twenties, building a career in digital marketing, supporting her family quietly, always the steady one. Yet lately, every time she looked in the mirror and saw those familiar waves framing her face, she felt like she was hiding behind them. Not from the world, but from herself.
One evening in early February, after a long day of client calls and a video meeting where someone complimented her “perfect look” again, she sat on her balcony watching the sun dip behind the blue city walls. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of roasting cumin from a neighbor’s kitchen. She ran her fingers through her hair one last time—slow, deliberate—and made the decision.
The next morning she told her mother over chai. “I want to shave it. All of it.”
Her mother paused, cup halfway to her lips. “Why now, beta?”
“Because I need to feel… new. Not prettier, not different for anyone else. Just lighter. Like I’m letting go of something that’s been holding me back.”
There were no arguments, only a quiet nod and a squeeze of her hand. “Then we do it together.”
They went to a small salon near Clock Tower, the kind with old wooden chairs and ceiling fans that creaked like stories. Teja Shri sat in front of the mirror, no dramatic buildup, no camera. Just her, the barber, and her mother standing behind like a silent guardian.
She asked for no guard on the clippers. The first buzz down the center felt like a door opening—cool air rushing against skin that hadn’t felt it in years. Black clippings fell like soft rain onto the cape, onto the floor. She watched them gather, surprised at how little grief there was. Instead, there was space. Breath. A strange, clean freedom.
When the clippers stopped, she touched her scalp—smooth, warm, slightly prickly at the edges. Her mother’s eyes were shiny, but she smiled. “You look strong, Teja. Like you always were, just… clearer.”
Teja Shri looked at her reflection. The face was the same—dark eyes, full lips painted her favorite soft red—but open. Vulnerable in the best way. No curtain. No shield. Just her.
That evening she walked through the old streets bare-headed, dupatta draped loosely around her shoulders instead of over her head. A few aunties stared, then smiled. A group of college girls whispered and gave thumbs-up. An old man selling chai nodded slowly, as if he understood something she hadn’t said.
Back home, she took a photo—not for likes, but for herself. Just her face, the heart pendant necklace catching the light, a small smile that felt earned.
Hair would grow back, or maybe it wouldn’t matter if it did. What mattered was the choice. The moment she decided the weight she carried would no longer be hidden in strands, but carried openly, proudly, in her own skin.
Teja Shri slept that night with the window open, desert wind brushing her bare scalp like a blessing. For the first time in a long time, she dreamed in wide, open spaces.