The bell above the salon door chimed softly as Mira stepped inside.
It was quiet — late afternoon, that slow hour between the rush of workday haircuts and evening color treatments. The air smelled of eucalyptus shampoo and warm dryers. Sunlight spilled through the front window, dust motes drifting lazily through it like they had nowhere urgent to be.
“Back again?” asked Lila, the stylist, looking up from sweeping clippings into a neat pile. Her smile was warm but curious — Mira had booked the full hour.
Mira nodded and slipped off her coat. Her fingers hovered near the curls that framed her face. “Yeah. But… I want to do something different today.”
Lila paused, broom resting against her shoulder. “Different how?”
Mira took a breath — the kind you take before stepping into cold water.
“Shave it.”
Silence stretched, not awkward, just thoughtful.
“Are you sure?” Lila asked gently. Not alarmed. Just respectful.
Mira sat in the chair, staring at herself in the mirror. Her curls were carefully grown for years — trimmed, styled, protected from humidity, pinned up for weddings, braided for vacations, fussed over in ways she never noticed until recently.
“I’ve spent so long trying to control everything,” she said quietly. “And this year proved I can’t. So… I want a reset. Something honest.”
Lila nodded once. No persuasion. No drama. She fastened the cape around Mira’s shoulders.
The first cut was loud — scissors slicing a thick lock. Mira felt the sudden lightness against her neck and blinked in surprise. The curl fell into her lap like a small, surrendered thing.
They didn’t rush.
Chunk by chunk, the weight disappeared. With every snip, Mira’s reflection changed — less framed, more revealed. Her cheekbones appeared sharper, her eyes somehow larger. She hadn’t realized how much her hair had been a shield.
Soon only uneven patches remained.
Lila picked up the clippers.
The gentle buzz filled the room, steady and calm, like distant bees in summer grass. As they moved across her scalp, Mira closed her eyes. Cool air followed each pass. The sensation was strange at first — then freeing. No pulling, no styling, no hiding.
Just her.
Minutes later, Lila brushed away the final soft remnants and turned the chair toward the mirror.
Mira opened her eyes.
For a moment, she didn’t react — she simply studied the person looking back. Not softer, not harsher. Just clearer. Her expression slowly shifted, not into a grin, but into relief.
She laughed — a small, surprised sound.
“I thought I’d feel exposed,” she said. “But I feel… present.”
Lila handed her a hand mirror to see the back. “Sometimes we remove things to see what was already there.”
Mira ran her palm across her head. Smooth. Cool. Real.
Outside, evening light had turned golden. When she stepped out of the salon, the wind touched her scalp directly for the first time in her life.
She didn’t reach for a hat.
She walked down the street lighter than she’d arrived — not because something was lost, but because something unnecessary was finally gone.