The knock was light, almost hesitant, but insistent enough to pull me away from the muted chaos of the news channel. I was just settling into my Friday evening ritual – instant noodles and questionable political debates – when it came. Frowning, I padded to the door of my small apartment, glancing through the peephole first.
Two faces stared back, framed in the distorted fisheye lens. Priya and Neha. They lived two floors above me, and while we weren’t friends, we were apartment-building-acquaintances. Pleasant nods in the elevator, the occasional forced smile when taking out the trash at the same time. Beautiful, both of them. Priya with her sharp, intelligent eyes and Neha possessing a softer, more approachable smile that could melt glaciers. Or so I thought.
I unlatched the door, a polite, “Hey, everything alright?” forming on my lips. Before I could even finish the sentence, Priya was inside, her hand snaking out to grip my wrist with surprising strength. Neha followed, closing the door behind them with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in the sudden tension that filled my small living room.
“We need to talk, Rohan,” Priya said, her voice low, almost a purr, but the intensity in her eyes was anything but gentle. Neha stood beside her, equally unsmiling, holding a small, innocuous-looking bag.
“Talk? About what?” My confusion was quickly morphing into unease. This wasn’t a casual Friday evening chat request. Something was off. Very off.
Priya released my wrist, but the grip had left a cold imprint. She moved further into the room, her gaze sweeping over my bachelor pad setup – the slightly stained couch, the stack of books precariously balanced on the coffee table, the half-eaten bag of chips on the side table.
“About you, Rohan,” Neha said, her voice softer than Priya’s, but no less firm. She placed the bag on the coffee table with a quiet thud. “And about something you need to do.”
My heart started to thump a little harder against my ribs. “I… I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
Priya smirked, a chilling, unfamiliar expression that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, you’ll understand soon enough. Neha, show him.”
Neha unzipped the bag. Inside, nestled amongst tissue paper, was a straight razor. The cold steel glinted under the dim apartment light, sharp and menacing. My breath hitched. A straight razor? What in the world…?
“We know about your… little online escapades, Rohan,” Priya continued, her voice dripping with disdain. My online escapades? What was she talking about? I occasionally played online chess, and I liked to browse Reddit, but nothing… nothing untoward. Or so I thought. A cold dread began to crawl up my spine.
“We know about the forums, Rohan,” Neha elaborated, her gaze unwavering. “The ones where you… express your… appreciation for certain… hairstyles. And the comments you leave. We’ve seen them.”
My blood ran cold. Suddenly, fragmented memories, forgotten posts from late-night browsing, lurked in the shadows of my mind. Stupid, impulsive comments on obscure forums about… about women’s hairstyles? I’d been careless, thought it was anonymous, harmless. Clearly, I was wrong.
“And we don’t appreciate them, Rohan,” Priya stepped closer, her voice now a silken threat. “We find them… disturbing. And frankly, a little pathetic.”
Humiliation washed over me, hot and stinging. I opened my mouth to protest, to deny, to justify, but the words caught in my throat. I knew, instinctively, that whatever I said would only make things worse.
Neha picked up the straight razor, running a delicate finger along its honed edge. “We think you need a… change, Rohan. A significant one.” She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something in her eyes – not just coldness, but something almost… amused?
“We think,” Priya said, her voice leaving no room for argument, “that you need a headshave, Rohan. Right here. Right now.”
My mind reeled. A headshave? They were serious? “No,” I managed to croak, my voice barely a whisper. “No, you can’t… you can’t do that.”
Priya’s smirk widened. “Oh, we can, Rohan. And we will. Unless…” She paused, letting the threat hang in the air. “Unless you want everyone in this building, maybe even your workplace, to know about your… online habits. We have screenshots, Rohan. Lots of them. And they’re quite… revealing.”
The blood drained from my face. My reputation. My job. Everything I had worked for… threatened by a few stupid, ill-considered online comments. They had me cornered. Completely, utterly cornered.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. It wasn’t just the humiliation, it was the sheer helplessness of the situation. Two women, beautiful, confident, wielding a straight razor and the threat of social annihilation. Against me, a meek, introverted guy who just wanted to be left alone.
“Please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Please don’t do this. I’ll delete everything. I’ll stop. Anything. Just… please.”
Priya’s expression remained unmoved. “It’s too late for that, Rohan. The lesson needs to be taught. And learned.” She gestured towards the couch. “Sit down, Rohan.”
My legs felt like lead, but I obeyed. I sank onto the worn cushions, my body trembling. Neha moved behind me, and I felt her hands gently but firmly turn my head, exposing the back of my neck. The cold steel of the razor touched my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Are you going to struggle, Rohan?” Priya asked, her voice soft, almost conversational, but the threat was implicit in every syllable.
I closed my eyes, hot tears now streaming down my face. Struggle? What was the point? They had won. They had broken me. “No,” I whispered, my voice choked with sobs. “No, I won’t struggle.”
The first stroke of the razor was surprisingly gentle, a cold, slick slide across my scalp. Then the pulling started, the whisper of steel slicing through hair, the faint scratching sound amplified in the oppressive silence of the room. Strands of my hair, strands of my identity, falling away onto the floor.
Neha worked with a methodical precision that was almost terrifying. Priya watched, her expression unreadable, her eyes fixed on me. Each stroke of the razor was a fresh wave of humiliation, a physical manifestation of my powerlessness. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation, the sound, the reality of what was happening.
The minutes stretched into an eternity. The cold air on my scalp grew more pronounced as more hair was removed. The sound of the razor, once sharp and distinct, became a dull, monotonous drone. My tears flowed freely, silent sobs racking my body.
I felt the gentle tugging on my ears as Neha worked around them. The back of my neck grew colder and colder. The weight of my hair, a weight I hadn’t even realized I carried, was being lifted, piece by piece. Replaced by nothing but the chilling air and the cold, hard reality of my utter defeat.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Neha stepped back. “Done,” she announced, her voice devoid of emotion.
I kept my eyes closed, unable to face the sight, unable to face them. I could feel the air on my completely bare scalp. It felt alien, exposed, vulnerable.
Priya stepped closer, her shadow falling over me. “Look at us, Rohan.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I opened my eyes. Priya and Neha stood before me, their expressions still unreadable. Neha was wiping the razor clean with a tissue. Priya simply stared at me, her gaze piercing.
“Remember this, Rohan,” she said, her voice low and serious now. “Remember this feeling. And remember to think before you act. Online and offline. Some things have consequences.”
She turned and walked towards the door, Neha following, the bag with the razor tucked under her arm. They paused at the threshold.
“Don’t worry,” Priya said, a ghost of her earlier smirk returning. “We won’t tell anyone. As long as you remember your lesson. And stay quiet.”
Then they were gone. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me alone in the deafening silence of my apartment.
I sat there, on the couch, for a long time. The air around me was thick with the scent of shaved hair. I could feel the stubble on my scalp, rough and unfamiliar. I finally dared to look around. My living room was covered in a carpet of dark hair, a stark, tangible testament to what had just happened.
Looking down at my reflection in the dark screen of the turned-off television, I saw a stranger staring back. A bald, tear-streaked stranger. The humiliation, the fear, the powerlessness – it was all still raw, still fresh. And the tears started again, hot and heavy, as I finally understood the full extent of my vulnerability, and the chilling reality of the lesson I had just been forced to learn. I was alone, bald, and utterly broken, in a room filled with the remnants of my stolen hair and the echoes of their chilling laughter.
