The mirror had never felt so honest.
For years, Amina had hidden behind strands of hair — long, thick, carefully parted, carefully tied, carefully approved by everyone except herself. Hair was safety. Hair was expectation. Hair was who she was supposed to be.
But that afternoon, the room was quiet except for the soft buzzing sound.
Bzzzz…
The first pass of the razor felt louder in her chest than in her ears.
A lock slid down her shoulder and landed on the floor like a sentence finally finished.
She expected regret.
She expected fear.
Instead… she laughed.
Her friend paused. “Are you sure?”
Amina nodded, eyes bright. “Keep going.”
More hair fell. With every stroke, something invisible lifted — the pressure to look perfect, the weight of everyone else’s opinions, the old version of herself she had outgrown but kept carrying.
When the buzzing stopped, the silence was different.
She touched her head gently. Smooth. Warm. Alive.
For the first time, she could feel the air — not just around her, but on her. A cool breeze slipped across her scalp, and she shivered, not from cold, but from freedom.
She looked in the mirror again.
The same face.
The same eyes.
But now, unmistakably her.
She smiled wider than she had in years.
“Hi,” she whispered to her reflection, “there you are.”
And the mirror, at last, agreed.