Teju had always loved her hair. It was long, dark, and thick—like the monsoon rivers back in her hometown—and she wore it like a quiet crown. Every morning she’d twist it into a loose braid while the kids tumbled around the kitchen, demanding extra idlis. Michael would sneak up behind her, kiss the top of her head, and murmur, “Still the most beautiful mess I know.” The children—little Aarohi with her endless questions and Rohan with his gap-toothed grin—loved burying their faces in it when they needed comfort after a scraped knee or a bad dream.
But in the months leading up to that December, something shifted.
It started small: strands on her pillow, more than usual. Then patches that felt thinner under her fingers. The doctor’s words were careful, kind, but clear: alopecia areata, an autoimmune flare, possibly triggered by stress from the move, the new job, the endless juggling. “It might grow back,” he said. “It might not. Hair is just hair. You’re still you.”
Teju didn’t cry in the clinic. She saved that for the car ride home, windows up, radio off, Michael’s hand steady on hers. The kids were at school; the house felt too quiet when they got back. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time, parting her hair this way and that, trying to see a future where it didn’t matter.
That evening, after dinner, she gathered everyone in the living room. Aarohi was coloring a Christmas card; Rohan was building a Lego tower that kept falling. Michael sat beside her on the couch.
“I’m going to shave it off,” she said simply.
The room went still. Rohan’s tower toppled again.
“Why, Amma?” Aarohi asked, crayon paused mid-stroke.
“Because it’s leaving anyway, bit by bit. And I don’t want to wait for it to decide when. I want to choose. And maybe… maybe it’ll feel lighter. Like starting fresh.”
Michael looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Whatever you need. We’re with you.”
The next weekend they turned it into something special. Michael bought clippers and a new set of colorful bandanas “for the bald queen era.” The kids insisted on helping. Aarohi chose a sparkly hair tie to clip back what was left before the first buzz. Rohan wanted to “drive” the clippers like a toy car.
They did it in the garden so the clippings could scatter like dark snow. Music played softly—old favorites from their wedding playlist. Teju sat on a stool, eyes closed at first, feeling the vibration travel across her scalp. The first pass down the center left a wide stripe of skin. Cool air rushed in. She laughed—surprised, free.
When it was done, she ran her hands over the smooth dome. No more hiding behind strands. No more wondering which day it would fall out. Just her face, open to the sun, to her family’s eyes.
Aarohi touched it gently. “It’s so soft, Amma. Like a baby dolphin.”
Rohan giggled. “You look like a superhero!”
Michael pulled her into a hug, pressing his lips to the top of her bare head. “Still the most beautiful mess I know.”
