The Kochi rain came down in sheets that evening, drumming against the tall glass windows of her apartment overlooking the backwaters.

Samyukta stood in the centre of the living room, still in the deep maroon Kanjivaram she’d worn for the pre-release event earlier—silk heavy with zari, now slightly damp at the edges from the dash through the parking lot.

Her hair, the one thing every stylist, director, and fan page had obsessed over for years: thick, waist-length waves the colour of polished teak, always oiled, always styled into perfect half-up braids or loose cascades for posters. It had become her signature, her armour, the first thing people noticed before they even heard her speak.

Tonight it felt like a lie.

She’d spent the last six months pretending everything was fine. The divorce announcement had been quiet, dignified, accompanied by that one carefully lit photoshoot where she smiled like someone who had already won. But inside, the weight hadn’t lifted. Every time she caught her reflection—long hair framing a face that looked tired even to her—the hair felt like an extension of the old version of herself she was trying to leave behind.

She’d bought the clippers two weeks ago on impulse, hidden them in the bottom drawer like contraband. Now they sat on the marble counter beside her mother’s old silver bowl, a pair of sharp scissors, and a single white candle flickering because the power had dipped for the third time that day.

No music. No mirror yet. Just the rain and her breathing.

She started with the scissors.

The first snip was tentative—a lock from the underside, hidden when braided. It fell soundlessly onto the floor tile. Then another. And another. Soon she was cutting faster, uneven chunks dropping around her feet like dark feathers. When the length reached her shoulders she stopped, hands shaking, and looked down at the pile. It didn’t feel like loss. It felt like shedding.

She plugged in the clippers.

The buzz filled the room louder than the thunder outside.

No guard. She didn’t want gradual. She wanted clean.

Starting at the nape, she pushed the blade upward in one steady motion. A wide stripe of bare skin appeared instantly—smooth, pale, startlingly naked. The vibration travelled up her spine like electricity. She exhaled hard, almost a laugh. Another pass. Another. The hair rained down in soft black drifts, collecting on her shoulders, sliding inside the blouse, tickling her collarbones before falling away.

She worked methodically: back, sides, crown, front. No hesitation now. When the clippers finally went silent, the room smelled of hot metal and wet earth from the open window.

Only then did she pick up the small hand mirror.

The face looking back was hers, but sharper. Higher cheekbones. Bigger eyes. Ears suddenly visible, delicate lobes she hadn’t seen clearly since childhood. The shape of her skull—elegant, rounded, strong—felt like something newly discovered. She ran her palm over the crown: warm velvet under her fingers, still tingling from the blades.

For a long moment she just stood there, candlelight playing across her bare scalp.

Then she walked to the balcony.

The rain had eased to a fine mist. She stepped out barefoot, letting the cool droplets kiss her head directly—no hair to shield, no barrier. It felt intimate, almost shocking. The water traced cool paths down her neck, soaked into the silk at her shoulders. She closed her eyes and tilted her face up.

No more hiding. No more carrying the weight of expectation. Just skin meeting sky.

Tomorrow there would be calls—stunned publicists, worried friends, maybe even a few headlines. She’d explain it simply: “I needed to feel lighter.” And she would mean it.

But tonight belonged to the rain and the quiet hum of her own pulse against bare scalp.

She smiled—small, real, unafraid.

For the first time in years, Samyukta felt completely herself.

(End)