The ceiling fans hummed softly above the tiled hall, pushing warm air in lazy circles. Numbers hung above each station—28, 29, 30—paint chipped at the edges from years of use. The smell of sandalwood soap and wet stone lingered in the air.
Ananya stood near the window, fingers loosely twisted together.
Her braid, thick and black, reached the middle of her back. Her mother used to oil it every Sunday, weaving stories into each careful plait. Hair remembers, her mother had said. It holds time.
Today, she was here to let that time go.
Women moved around her—some chatting, some quiet, some already bald and glowing with fresh water on their scalps. A few smiled at her knowingly. First time.
A woman in a red sari waved her over to the empty chair.
“Sit, child,” she said gently.
Ananya sat.
The marble felt cool under her feet. Outside the barred windows, sunlight filtered through trees and painted moving shadows on the floor. Somewhere, a bell rang faintly.
The woman untied the ribbon at the end of Ananya’s braid. It loosened like a sigh.
“So long,” the woman murmured. “It must have taken years.”
“It did,” Ananya said, surprised at how small her voice sounded.
A comb passed through her hair slowly, separating the strands. Each pull tugged at memories—school mornings, festivals, her grandmother’s stories, the hospital room last winter.
She closed her eyes.
The first cut came soft and decisive.
A weight slipped from her head and fell into the woman’s hand.
She hadn’t realized how heavy it had been.
More snips followed, quicker now. Locks dropped onto the stone floor like dark feathers. She watched them gather near her toes, no longer hers.
Then came the razor.
Cool water. A careful touch.
The scraping sound was rhythmic, almost soothing.
With every stroke, the air touched her skin more freely. Lighter. Bare.
She expected sadness.
Instead, she felt space.
When it was done, the woman wiped her head with a damp cloth and turned the mirror.
Ananya barely recognized herself.
Her face looked sharper, younger somehow. Her eyes larger. Honest.
Nothing to hide behind.
She lifted a hand and ran her palm over her scalp. Smooth. New. Like the first page of a notebook.
The woman smiled. “How do you feel?”
Ananya searched for the word.
“Free,” she said.
Outside, the bell rang again. The day went on. Other women waited their turn. Life kept moving.
She stepped into the sunlight, the breeze touching her head like a blessing.
Behind her, the last strand lay quietly on the floor, already part of the past.
Ahead, everything felt possible.