Dr. Kritika Mohan adjusted the pleats of her black silk saree one last time in the hallway mirror. The gold zari border caught the morning light filtering through the frosted glass window. Her long, jet-black hair—oiled, braided, and coiled into a neat bun at the nape—was pinned with a single jasmine flower. It was the same ritual she had followed every day since medical college: hair neatly bound, bindi centered, mangalsutra resting against the collarbone. A picture of quiet composure. A doctor who never let emotion show on her face.
Today the composure cracked.
She had carried the decision for months, hidden behind polite smiles and late-night ward rounds. The weight of expectations—family, patients, society—had settled on her scalp like an invisible crown. She was tired of carrying it.
The small puja room at the back of the house smelled of sandalwood and camphor. She had cleared the low wooden table, spread a fresh white cloth, and placed only three things on it: a pair of sharp scissors, the new clippers she’d ordered discreetly, and her grandmother’s old straight razor, its handle worn smooth by generations.
She lit a single diya. The flame danced, small and steady.
Kritika sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight, saree pallu draped modestly over her shoulder. She reached behind and slowly unpinned the jasmine. The flower fell into her palm; she set it beside the diya. Then she loosened the braid. Thick waves tumbled free, reaching past her waist. She ran her fingers through them once—soft, familiar, heavy with coconut oil and memories.
No mirror. She didn’t need to watch. She needed to feel.
She gathered the length into one hand, twisted it tight at the base, and brought the scissors up. The first cut was loud in the quiet room—snip—like breaking a thread that had been pulling for years. A long rope of hair slid into her lap. She placed it carefully on the white cloth, a dark serpent coiled in offering.
More cuts followed. Faster now. Sections fell away until only uneven lengths remained, brushing her shoulders like a ragged curtain. She set the scissors aside and picked up the clippers.
The buzz filled the room when she switched them on. She pressed the guardless blade to her forehead and drew it straight back over the crown in one long, deliberate pass. Hair rained down in soft black drifts, settling on the saree, on the floor, on her folded knees. Each stroke revealed cool air on skin that had never known it. The vibration traveled through bone, intimate, almost tender.
She worked methodically: crown to nape, temple to temple, tilting her head with the same care she used when suturing a wound. When the clippers clicked off, only dark stubble remained—uniform, shadowed, vulnerable.
Kritika exhaled. The sound was shaky.
She reached for the shaving foam next—plain white, unscented, the kind used in hospitals. She squeezed a generous palmful and spread it slowly over her scalp, fingertips tracing circles, feeling the contours of her own skull for the first time. The foam was cool against warm skin. She let it sit, breathing in the faint chemical-clean scent mixed with lingering sandalwood.
The razor came last. She tested the edge on her thumb, then placed it at her hairline. One smooth pull—back over the dome. Foam and stubble curled away together. Rinse in the small brass lota beside her. Another pull. Rinse. Repeat. Long, unhurried strokes. No nicks. No hurry. Just the soft scrape of steel on skin, the quiet drip of water, the gradual emergence of bare, gleaming scalp.
When the last patch was gone she dipped the corner of her pallu in the lota and wiped her head clean. Then she poured a few drops of pure til oil into her palm and massaged it in—slow circles, gentle pressure, feeling every ridge and curve. Her scalp drank the oil quickly, leaving a soft, subtle shine.
Only then did she stand and walk to the hallway mirror.
The woman who looked back wore the same black saree, the same gold jewelry, the same red bindi centered perfectly between her brows. But the face was sharper, clearer. Cheekbones prominent, eyes larger, neck long and graceful. No frame of hair to soften anything. Just her—unadorned, unapologetic.
She touched her bare scalp with both hands. Warm. Smooth. Alive. Every fingertip registered new sensation: the slight texture of pores, the heat radiating from skin, the quiet pulse beneath.
A small smile curved her lips.
She returned to the puja room, gathered the fallen hair into the white cloth, tied it like a bundle, and placed it beside the diya. An offering. A goodbye.
Tomorrow she would go to the hospital as usual. Patients would stare. Colleagues would whisper. Family would ask questions. She would answer calmly, the way she always did: with facts, with kindness, with steady hands.
But the weight would be gone.
She blew out the diya, the flame winking once before darkness.
Then she stepped into the morning light—bald, beautiful, and finally free.