The mirror was small and a little cloudy. When the first pass of the razor went over her scalp, she flinched

 The room smelled faintly of soap and dust, the kind of place where people waited and time slowed down. She stood when they called her name, smoothing her kurta out of habit, even though she knew none of that mattered right now.

The mirror was small and a little cloudy. When the first pass of the razor went over her scalp, she flinched—not from pain, but from the sound. A soft, scraping whisper. Hair fell in thin, dark lines, sliding down like it had been waiting for permission to leave.

She thought she would cry. Everyone said that was the moment it hit you. But instead, she laughed—just a breath of it—because the sensation was oddly light, like setting down a heavy bag you didn’t realize you’d been carrying for years.

When it was done, she ran her hand over her head. Smooth. Warm. Unfamiliar, but not wrong. She felt exposed, yes—but also honest. Nothing to hide behind. No layers.

Someone nearby smiled at her, the kind of smile that doesn’t ask questions. She smiled back, shy at first, then wider.

This wasn’t an ending. It wasn’t a punishment. It was a marker in the middle of her story, a line drawn not in ink but in courage.

Later, when the wind touched her bare scalp for the first time, she closed her eyes and let it happen.

She was still herself.
And somehow, she felt even more so.