The monsoon had been relentless that July, turning Jaipur's narrow gali into rivers of muddy water. Priya stood under the narrow awning of the small barber shop near Hawa Mahal, saree clinging to her skin, the end of her pallu dripping steadily.
Inside, the old barber—known simply as "Tauji"—was wiping his straight razor on a strip of worn leather. He didn't look surprised to see her. People had been coming with stranger requests all week.
"You're sure?" he asked without turning around.
Priya nodded once. Her braid—thick, blue-black, reaching past her waist—had been growing since she was thirteen. Twenty-one years of careful oiling, braiding, never a single trim beyond the ends. It had survived board exams, her first job interview, her wedding photos, the birth of her daughter. It was the one part of her life that had never disappointed anyone.
Three days earlier she'd sat on the edge of her bed at 3 a.m., scrolling through old photos on her phone. In every frame from the last year she looked tired—hollow around the eyes, smile forced. The hair framed that exhaustion like an elaborate curtain hiding cracked walls.
She didn't want to hide anymore.
She wanted to feel the rain on her scalp.
She wanted to walk into her office tomorrow and let people stare without explanation.
She wanted, for once, to look like someone who had made a deliberate, irreversible choice.
Tauji gestured to the chair. No mirror faced it—some old habit of his, perhaps to spare first-timers the shock. Priya sat. The wooden seat was still warm from the previous customer.
He didn't ask questions. He simply gathered the braid in one hand like he was lifting something fragile and heavy at the same time. She felt the elastic band slide free, the familiar tug at her roots.
Snip.
Not dramatic. Just the first deliberate cut, four inches above the tie. The sound was small, almost polite.
He laid the severed length across her lap like an offering. It looked obscene there—too perfect, too long, too much like something that belonged to another woman.
Then came the clippers.
They started at the nape, cool metal kissing skin that had never felt direct air before. The vibration traveled up her spine like electricity. Long ropes of hair tumbled forward over her shoulders, then slid to the floor in soft black heaps.
She kept her eyes closed.
Not from fear. From concentration.
She was listening to the rain on the tin roof, to the soft electric buzz, to the small wet sounds of hair hitting tile. She was memorizing the exact second her head became lighter, freer, colder.
When the clippers finally switched off, the silence felt enormous.
Tauji took the straight razor next. Short, careful strokes. The scent of sandalwood shaving foam filled the tiny shop. Each pass left a cool, naked stripe.
When he finally spun the chair to face the mirror, Priya opened her eyes.
The woman looking back had no frame, no curtain, no armor.
Just skin. Just rain-light reflecting off a smooth dome. Just her own wide, startled eyes.
She lifted her hand slowly, fingertips brushing the curve above her ear. The sensation was shocking—velvet and glass at the same time.
Tauji handed her a small towel. She pressed it to her scalp and felt the dampness of her own skin, warm beneath the coolness.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
For the first time in months, the answer came without hesitation.
"Light," she said.
She paid him double what he asked, left the long braid on the chair like a sleeping snake, and stepped back into the rain.
No umbrella.
No pallu over her head.
Just water sluicing over bare scalp, running behind her ears, dripping from her chin.
People stared as she walked past the jewelers, past the sweet shop, past the auto-rickshaw stand.
She didn't look down.
She looked straight ahead, smiling at nothing in particular, feeling the rain trace every new contour of her head like it was introducing itself for the first time.
And for once, she didn't mind being seen.