The Mumbai apartment felt vast and still that evening. No visitors, no calls from lawyers, no echoes of old arguments. Just the steady whir of the ceiling fan and the muffled rhythm of the city far below.
Ayesha stood before the full-length mirror in the master bedroom, dressed in her usual post-gym black sports bra and loose track pants. Her long, dark hair—thick, glossy, the kind that had once drawn endless comments—was pulled into a simple, tired bun. It had grown unchecked for months, ever since the divorce finalized in 2023. It had become a shield: hiding the sharper lines of her face, the quiet resolve in her eyes, the weight she carried alone now.
She reached back, tugged the elastic free, and let it cascade down her back. One last time, she combed her fingers through the strands—feeling their familiar heaviness—then let her hands drop.
No more hiding.
She moved to the bathroom, opened the rarely touched drawer, and gathered what she’d quietly purchased weeks ago:
- A black Wahl clipper, still sealed
- A new foil shaver
- Menthol shaving foam
- The soft badger brush she’d kept from years past
Back in the bedroom, she plugged in the clippers by the bed and sat on the mattress edge, facing her reflection. No fanfare. No soundtrack. Just the click of the switch.
The buzz started low and steady.
She began at the center: forehead straight back to the crown. A heavy ribbon of black hair tumbled forward, pooling in her lap before sliding to the carpet. She watched her own eyes in the mirror—searching for hesitation, for second thoughts.
None came.
Pass after pass followed—methodical, unhurried. The clippers warmed in her grip. Fine clippings dusted her shoulders, clung to her neck, settled in the folds of her pants. When the top was stubble, she leaned forward and worked the back: nape upward in careful rows. Cool air kissed newly bare skin for the first time in decades.
The clippers went silent. The room felt bigger.
She shook the foam can, sprayed a mound into her palm, and massaged it into a thick lather. Then she spread it across her scalp—slow, circular motions from front to back. The menthol hit sharp and immediate; her eyes stung briefly. She blinked through it.
Foil shaver next. Gentle glides, no rush. Each stroke revealed smooth, pale skin she hadn’t seen since her youth. She used the handheld mirror for the back, tilting her head, watching the transformation unfold inch by inch.
When it was finished, she wiped away the residue with a warm towel and stood.
The mirror showed someone new—smaller without the curtain of hair, more exposed, undeniably present. Her features stood out: the strong jaw, the faint lines of resilience, the small tattoo on her arm that had always been hers alone. Her earrings caught the light differently now, framing bare ears and a naked scalp.
She tilted her head side to side.
A soft, surprised laugh broke free—part relief, part wonder.
Both hands rose to cradle her head. The skin was warm from friction, alive with sensation. Every contour, every subtle ridge, every faint pulse was right there—no barrier.
For the first time in years, she met her own gaze without flinching.
She whispered to the reflection, barely above a breath:
“Hello again.”
Then she switched off the light, left the fallen hair where it lay, and stepped out to the balcony.
The night air moved freely over her bare scalp—cool, insistent, honest.
She leaned against the railing, closed her eyes, and let the breeze trace every newly sensitive inch.
It felt like freedom.
Like starting over.
Like her.