Here's a more grounded, realistic head-shave story set in a familiar Indian context.
She had booked the appointment for 4:15 p.m. on a Tuesday.
The salon was one of those mid-range places in C-Scheme—glass front, white tiles, three reclining chairs, continuous Marathi–Hindi pop playing at medium volume. Not the high-end one in the mall, not the roadside uncle with the red plastic chair. Somewhere in between so it wouldn't feel like a statement and wouldn't feel like surrender.
Her name was Anjali. Thirty-one. Senior accounts executive. Married six years. One daughter, four years old, currently at after-school drawing class. The long hair—chestnut-brown at the tips from an old highlights experiment, otherwise jet black—had been part of her "office look" for so long that colleagues sometimes complimented it the way they complimented someone's new car: polite, expected, slightly envious.
Three weeks earlier her trichologist had used the word "diffuse thinning" twice in the same sentence. Not dramatic bald patches, nothing cinematic. Just the slow, quiet mathematics of more scalp showing in the parting every time she tied a high pony. The mirror in the lift at work had become unkind. Foundation no longer hid the widening grid of skin. She started parting her hair differently every day like someone rotating a combination lock, hoping today the hair would cooperate.
She didn't cry about it. She Googled minoxidil side effects, ordered two brands, read Reddit threads until 2 a.m., felt the familiar spiral of "maybe next month it'll get better." Then one Sunday afternoon, while her daughter was napping, she stood in the bathroom, took thirty-seven photos of her scalp under different lights, sent them to three different dermatologists on Practo, and received three versions of the same polite professional shrug.
That evening she searched "how to accept hair loss woman India" and ended up on a blog post titled "I Shaved My Head at 29 – Here's What Actually Happened." The writer looked calm in the after photos. Not beautiful in a movie way. Just calm. Anjali saved six screenshots and closed the tab.
She didn't tell her husband first. She told her mother.
Her mother said exactly three things in this order:
1. "Beta, don't do anything drastic."
2. "What will people say?"
3. "…At least go to a good place, not some roadside barber."
So she booked the mid-range salon.
Tuesday came. She left work at 3:40, told the team she had a doctor's appointment, drove the wrong direction for ten minutes because her hands were shaking on the steering wheel, then corrected course.
Inside the salon the stylist—Neha, early twenties, nose pin, very straight fringe—asked the standard questions.
"Trim or…?"
"Shave," Anjali said. The word came out smaller than she expected.
Neha paused. Looked at the length. Looked at Anjali's face. Didn't ask why. Just nodded once and said, "Okay. You want clipper only or razor finish also?"
"Razor," Anjali heard herself say.
They started with the braid. Neha sectioned it, tied a tight elastic near the nape, asked if Anjali wanted to keep the cut-off length. Anjali shook her head. Neha snipped. One clean sound. The braid dropped into a clear ziplock bag like evidence. Anjali stared at it the way people stare at their own appendix after surgery—fascinated and faintly disgusted that something so familiar had been part of her.
Clippers next.
Neha began at the back, zero guard. The vibration was louder than Anjali expected; it travelled into her teeth. Black drifts fell fast—faster than she thought possible. Within ninety seconds the back half of her head felt cool. Exposed. Draft from the AC touched skin that hadn't felt direct air since she was in Class 8 and had typhoid.
Neha worked quickly, methodically. No dramatic pauses. No speeches. Just the steady zzzt-zzzt-zzzt and the soft thump of hair hitting the cape.
When she switched to the foil shaver for the final pass, Anjali closed her eyes. The oscillating blades made a higher whine. Tiny prickles. Then nothing but smooth.
Neha wiped her scalp with a cool towel, applied a drop of tea-tree aftershave balm, rubbed it in small circles.
"Done."
Anjali opened her eyes.
The mirror showed someone she recognised and didn't recognise. Same eyes, same small nose ring, same faint worry line between the brows. No frame around the face. No curtain to hide behind. Just skin. A few tiny red dots where the follicles were still angry. A head shape she had never really seen before—rounder than she expected, vulnerable-looking.
She lifted her hand. Touched.
Velvet stubble under her fingertips for maybe three seconds, then completely smooth.
Neha asked quietly, "You okay?"
Anjali nodded. Then laughed once—short, surprised. "It's so light."
She paid. Left a big tip without thinking. Walked out into the February evening. Jaipur at 5:30 p.m. is still warm, but the air has started to soften. She didn't put her dupatta over her head. Didn't tie a scarf. Just walked to the car feeling the breeze move across her scalp like someone gently running their palm over it.
In the car she didn't cry. She sat for a long minute with both hands on the wheel, engine off, feeling the strangest combination of panic and relief.
Then she started the car, turned toward her daughter's class, and drove.
When her daughter saw her that evening the first thing she said was:
"Mamma you look like a baby dolphin!"
Anjali laughed so hard she almost dropped the school bag.
And that, somehow, was the moment it stopped feeling like an ending.