They arrived at Tirumala before dawn, when the hills were still wrapped in mist and the temple bells sounded like they were waking the sky itself.
For months, the vow had lived silently inside them.
Side by side, they had walked through fear, illness, prayers whispered at night, and promises made not for vanity—but for gratitude. And now they stood together again, dressed in simple white sarees edged with gold, hearts steady, eyes calm.
In the Kalyanakatta, the air smelled of sandalwood and devotion. Women from all walks of life sat there—some nervous, some serene, all united by faith. When their turn came, they clasped each other’s hands briefly. No words were needed.
As the first lock of hair fell, there was no sadness.
Only release.
Years of identity tied to mirrors and expectations slipped away strand by strand. What remained was something quieter and stronger—a sense of surrender. Not loss, but offering.
When it was over, they touched their freshly shaven heads instinctively, surprised at the lightness. The breeze felt different now—cooler, more honest. They smiled at each other, not because they looked the same, but because they felt aligned.
Later, standing before Lord Venkateswara, palms joined, eyes closed, they offered the last thing they had held onto without realizing it—the need to be seen a certain way.
They walked down the hill together, heads bare, faces glowing, laughter easy.
Not because they were beautiful before or after the shave—
but because devotion had stripped them down to truth.
And that, they knew, would stay with them long after their hair grew back.