The Juhu penthouse was quiet at 1:17 a.m. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the dark Arabian Sea, broken only by the slow blink of distant ships. Aanchal had turned off every light except the single warm bulb above the vanity in her walk-in bathroom.
She stood barefoot on the cool marble, wearing nothing but an oversized white T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh. Her signature long, wavy black hair—always perfectly blow-dried for shoots, red-carpet appearances, or just because the world expected it—was loose tonight, framing her face like a dark halo. She hadn’t cut it in years. It had become part of the brand: the girl with the glossy mane, the one who looked effortlessly put-together even when the schedule was brutal.
Tonight she didn’t feel effortless. She felt tired of performing.
She opened the drawer she usually avoided—the one with the travel-sized grooming kit she’d bought on impulse in New York last month and never unpacked.
- Cordless clippers (black matte, professional grade)
- A new foil shaver still in its box
- A small tube of aloe shaving gel
- The soft synthetic brush she sometimes used for makeup
She carried everything to the vanity stool and sat facing the lighted mirror. No music. No phone. Just the faint hum of the air-conditioner and her own steady breathing.
She gathered her hair into a high ponytail first—not to save it, just to feel its weight one last time. It was heavier than she remembered. She twisted the elastic twice, then reached for the scissors from the kit. One clean snip at the base.
The ponytail fell into her lap like a thick rope—almost two feet long. She held it for a moment, running her thumb along the smooth cut end, then set it carefully on the counter beside the sink. A small offering to the version of herself she was leaving behind.
Clippers next.
She flicked them on. The buzz was louder than she expected in the empty room. She started at the nape—short, firm upward strokes. Hair rained down in soft black drifts, landing on her shoulders, sliding into the folds of her T-shirt, dusting the marble floor. She kept her eyes on the mirror the whole time, watching the shape of her head emerge: the gentle curve of her skull, the small ears she’d always thought too delicate, the faint scar above her left eyebrow from a childhood fall no one ever noticed under the hair.
When the clippers had done their work, only a dark shadow remained.
She switched to the foil shaver. Applied the aloe gel in slow circles—cool, slippery, soothing. The menthol tingled against her scalp. She glided the shaver front to back, then side to side, wiping the head clean after every few passes with a warm towel. Each stroke revealed smoother, paler skin. The light caught the tiny sheen of moisture left behind.
When she finished, she ran both palms over her entire head—slow, deliberate. The sensation was electric: every nerve ending suddenly awake. No more curtain. No more hiding. Just her.
She tilted her head left, then right.
A small, surprised exhale escaped her—half laugh, half wonder.
She stood up and walked to the full-length mirror in the bedroom. The city lights painted faint gold streaks across her bare scalp. Her neck looked longer, her collarbones sharper, her eyes larger. The gold chain around her neck rested directly against skin instead of disappearing into hair. Everything felt… closer.
She touched her head again—fingertips tracing the crown, the temples, the sensitive dip at the back. It was strange and perfect at the same time.
She whispered to her reflection, voice soft in the dark:
“You look like you again.”
Then she turned, left the fallen hair where it lay like black snow on the bathroom floor, and stepped out onto the balcony.
The night breeze moved over her naked scalp—cool, insistent, alive. She closed her eyes and let it wash across every newly exposed inch.
For the first time in years she didn’t reach up to smooth her hair.
She didn’t need to.
She was already exactly where she wanted to be.