Sunita had worn her hair long since she was a girl in their small Rajasthan village. Thick, curly waves that her mother used to oil and braid every morning before school, then her husband after marriage, and finally her teenage daughter Priya when life got busier. The curls had survived two pregnancies, endless household chores, a factory job that started at dawn, and the slow worry that had settled in her chest over the past year.
The lump was discovered during a free camp at the district hospital. "Biopsy," the doctor said gently. "We need to be sure." When the report came—breast cancer, stage II—the world narrowed to hospital corridors, waiting rooms, and the smell of disinfectant.
Sunita never cried in front of Priya. She smiled through the consultations, nodded at the treatment plan: surgery, then chemo. But the night before the first chemo session, she sat on the edge of her cot in the women's ward, staring at the ceiling fan. Her hair felt heavier than ever—long enough to reach her waist, still shiny despite everything.
Priya arrived early the next morning, carrying a small steel dabba of homemade aloo paratha and a plastic bag with Sunita's favorite green bangles. She saw her mother's face and understood without words.
"Maa," Priya whispered, sitting beside her. "They said it might fall out anyway. The medicines… they take everything."
Sunita looked at her daughter—seventeen, eyes already too old for her age—and felt something crack open inside. "Then let it be on my terms," she said quietly. "Not the medicine's. Mine."
There was no fancy salon, no mirror framed in lights. Just the small bathroom attached to the ward, fluorescent tube flickering overhead, tiled walls echoing every sound. Priya held the phone steady while Sunita sat on a plastic stool. One of the ward attendants—a kind woman named Rekha didi who had seen this moment many times—offered to help.
Rekha didi started with scissors. The first snip was loud in the quiet room. A thick curl fell onto Sunita's lap like a question mark. Then another, and another, until the floor was scattered with black spirals. Sunita closed her eyes, breathing slowly, feeling the weight lift with each cut.
When only stubble remained, Rekha didi switched to the razor. Cool foam, gentle strokes, the soft scrape of metal on skin. Priya never looked away. She held her mother's hand, thumb rubbing small circles over the knuckles the way Sunita used to do when Priya had fever as a child.
When it was done, Sunita opened her eyes. The mirror above the sink showed a smooth, round head, small scars from childhood falls now visible, the bindi dot still perfectly centered on her forehead. She looked… smaller, but not weaker. Different, but still hers.
Priya stepped forward and touched the crown of her mother's head with trembling fingers. "You look like a warrior, Maa," she said, voice cracking. "Like in the old stories."
Sunita laughed—a small, surprised sound—and pulled Priya into a hug. The bangles clinked softly against each other. "Then we'll fight like one," she whispered.
Later that day, after the first chemo drip started, Sunita sat by the window in her bed, bald head catching the afternoon sun. Priya took a photo on her phone—not for sharing, just for them. Sunita in her maroon kurta, green bangles bright against brown skin, a faint smile, eyes steady.
Months passed. Chemo was hard—nausea, tiredness, the metallic taste that never left—but the hair loss never felt like loss again. It felt like a choice remembered. When the fuzz began to return—soft, dark baby hair—Sunita let it grow slowly, no rush.
On the day the doctor said "remission," Sunita and Priya went back to the village temple together. Sunita wore a new yellow saree, her short crop styled with a little oil and a single jasmine flower tucked behind one ear. Priya braided a thin ribbon into it anyway, just because.
As they walked home under the neem trees, Priya slipped her hand into her mother's. "Your hair's coming back curly again," she said.
Sunita squeezed back. "Good. It always knew the way home."
