Just shave that head. Collage girls Headshave

I'll never forget that sweltering summer night when my friends Reema, Rina, and I decided to take a walk down the empty streets. We were three girls with long, bold, and funny hair, and the heat was getting unbearable. As we strolled, laughing and joking, we stumbled upon a small barbershop that was still open despite the late hour. The sign above the door read "Mahesh's Barber Shop" in faded letters, and the window was dimly lit, but we could see the silhouette of the barber sitting inside. Reema, being the adventurous one, pushed open the door, and we stepped inside. The barber, an old man with a kind face, looked up from his chair and greeted us with a warm smile. "Welcome, girls! What brings you out so late?" he asked, eyeing our long locks. Rina, who was always up for a challenge, spoke up, "We're dying from the heat, and our hair is making it worse. We were thinking of getting rid of it all." The barber's eyes lit up, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Ah, you're thinking of shaving your heads? Well, I've done it for many a brave soul, but never for three lovely ladies like yourselves." We giggled at the thought, but the heat was getting to us, and the idea was starting to appeal. Seema, the most cautious of our group, asked, "But won't it be too drastic? We'll look like...like..." She struggled to find the right words. The barber chuckled. "Like new-born babies? Don't worry, my dear, you'll look beautiful, and it will be a relief from this sweltering heat." He gestured to the straight razor lying on his counter, its blade glinting in the dim light. "I'll use this old friend of mine. It's been with me for years, and it will give you a smooth, clean shave." I have to admit, the thought of shaving our heads with a straight razor was both thrilling and terrifying. But Reema, being the bold one, took the lead. "Let's do it!" she exclaimed. "We're in this together, right?" The barber nodded and beckoned us to sit in his chair, one by one. Rina went first, and as the barber began to lather her hair, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The first snip of the razor made us all jump, but the barber's hands were steady and sure. As the hair fell away, revealing Rina's smooth scalp, we cheered her on. Next was Seema, who was a bit more hesitant, but the barber reassured her, "Don't worry, I'll be gentle." As he worked his magic, Seema's long locks fell to the floor, and she looked...different, yet still beautiful. Finally, it was my turn. I sat in the chair, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. The barber smiled and began to lather my hair. As the razor glided across my scalp, I felt a strange sense of liberation. It was as if I was shedding not just my hair but also my inhibitions. As we sat there, one by one, getting our heads shaved, the barber regaled us with stories of his own youthful adventures. He told us about the time he had shaved his head as a young man, as a vow to his deity, and how it had become a ritual for him to shave the heads of those seeking relief from the heat. The process was not just about getting a haircut; it was an experience. The dim lighting, the soft hum of the barber's radio in the background, and the feeling of the cool night air on our newly shaved heads all combined to create a sense of camaraderie among us. As we left the barbershop, our bald heads held high, we felt like new women. The night air, which had felt oppressive just a while ago, now felt refreshing. We strolled down the empty streets, our footsteps echoing off the buildings, and our laughter carrying on the wind. People we passed by stared, some in surprise, others in admiration. We didn't care; we felt free, unencumbered by the weight of our long hair. We joked and teased each other, our bald heads glinting in the streetlights. As we walked, we noticed the way the world looked different without the burden of our hair. The stars seemed brighter, the air felt cooler, and we felt more connected to each other. We took selfies, our shiny heads making us look like a trio of mischievous pixies. The night wore on, and eventually, we made our way back home, exhausted but exhilarated. As we settled into bed, our newly shaved heads felt cool against the pillow. We knew that this was a night we would never forget, a night that had brought us closer together. The next morning, we woke up to a barrage of messages from friends and family, some shocked, others supportive. But we didn't care; we knew we had done something special, something that had bonded us in a way we never thought possible. As I look back on that night, I realize that it was more than just a haircut; it was an experience that changed us. We emerged from Mahesh's Barber Shop as three bold, bald, and beautiful women, ready to take on the world, or at least the summer heat.

Headshave due to summer

As I walked down the empty street with my best friends Seema, Reema, and Rina, I couldn't help but feel a sense of freedom that only comes with a warm summer night. The four of us had been inseparable since college, and our nightly walks had become a cherished tradition. Seema, with her long, flowing hair, was the boldest of the group. She had a way of making us all laugh, even in the most tense situations. Reema, with her sharp wit and intelligence, was always the one to come up with the craziest ideas. And Rina, the kind-hearted and gentle soul, was the glue that held us all together. As we passed by a barbershop, Seema stopped in her tracks. "Hey, guys, check this out," she said, gesturing towards the window. "It's so hot outside, and I've been thinking about cutting my hair. What if we all got our heads shaved with a straight razor?" Reema's eyes lit up. "That's a fantastic idea! It would be so refreshing and different." Rina looked hesitant. "But won't it be too drastic? I've never even had a pixie cut before." Seema put a hand on Rina's shoulder. "Come on, Rina. It's just hair. It will grow back. And think of how amazing it will feel to have the wind blowing through your scalp on these hot summer nights." I could see the excitement in Rina's eyes as she considered the idea. "Okay, let's do it," she said finally. We walked into the barbershop, and the smell of hair products and the sound of scissors snipping filled the air. The barber, an older man with a kind face, looked at us curiously. "Can I help you ladies?" Seema spoke up. "Yes, we want to get our heads shaved with a straight razor." The barber raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? It's a big change." We all nodded eagerly. He shrugged. "Alright then, have a seat." As the barber worked his way around each of our heads, the weight of our long hair fell away, leaving us feeling lighter and more free than we had in a long time. We laughed and joked with each other, relishing in the feeling of the cool metal blade against our scalps. When the barber was finished, he turned us around to face the mirror. We were all shocked at our new reflections. Our heads were bald, and our faces looked stark and bare without the frame of our long hair. But there was something undeniably powerful about our new looks. We paid the barber and stepped out onto the empty street, feeling the wind blow through our scalps. It was exhilarating. As we walked, we drew stares and whispers from passersby. Some people looked at us with confusion, while others gave us admiring glances. But we didn't care. We were having the time of our lives. We stopped at a nearby café for a late-night snack, and the waitstaff couldn't take their eyes off of us. We laughed and joked, feeling more confident than ever before. As the night wore on, we continued our walk, taking in the sights and sounds of the city at night. We talked about everything and nothing, reveling in the freedom that came with our new looks. By the time we made it back to our apartment, we were exhausted but exhilarated. We collapsed onto the couch, still marveling at our new appearances. Seema spoke up. "I can't believe we did that. It was so crazy and spontaneous." Reema grinned. "It was one of the best decisions we've ever made." Rina looked at us, her eyes shining with emotion. "I never would have done something like this without you guys. You're my sisters, and I love you." We all hugged each other tightly, feeling grateful for the bond that we shared. As we drifted off to sleep, I couldn't help but feel grateful for this crazy, unforgettable night. We had taken a risk, and it had paid off in a way that we never could have imagined. From that night on, we embraced our new looks with confidence and pride. We walked down the street with our heads held high, unapologetic and bold. And every time we looked in the mirror, we were reminded of the power of friendship and the strength that comes from taking a risk. It was a summer night that we would never forget, a night that would forever be etched in our memories. And even as our hair grew back, the memory of that night would stay with us, a reminder of the power of friendship and the beauty of taking a risk.

Temple head shave

The hum of the electric razor vibrated in my hand, a stark counterpoint to the rhythmic chanting drifting from the temple courtyard. Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams slanting through the open doorway of the small, dimly lit room. My reflection, pale and apprehensive, stared back at me. This was it. No turning back. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began. Leaving home had felt like a silent scream. Not a dramatic, tearful exit, but a quiet severing, a slow fade-to-black. Twenty-two years I'd lived under the same roof, a tapestry woven with the familiar textures of my family's expectations, their unspoken rules, their carefully cultivated image of me – the dutiful daughter, the successful student, the future doctor. But the threads of that tapestry had begun to fray, and I, trapped within its suffocating embrace, felt myself unraveling. My decision to shave my head at the temple wasn't a sudden impulse. It was the culmination of a long, simmering rebellion, a silent protest against the invisible chains binding me. It was about shedding not just hair, but the weight of expectation, the suffocating pressure to conform, the stifling sense of being someone I wasn't. I'd always felt a pull towards something different, something beyond the prescribed path laid out for me. A yearning for a life less ordinary, a soul less defined by societal norms. The journey to the temple itself was a metaphor for my journey inward. The familiar streets of my hometown blurred past, replaced by the unfamiliar landscape of my own burgeoning self-discovery. I boarded a bus, a silent observer amidst the chatter and bustle of daily life. The city faded, replaced by sprawling countryside. The rhythm of the bus engine became a hypnotic beat, accompanying the pounding of my own heart, a drum solo of uncertainty and anticipation. The temple, nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas, was a haven of serenity amidst the chaos of my inner turmoil. The air hummed with a palpable energy, a sense of peace that washed over me, calming my racing thoughts. The scent of incense and sandalwood filled my lungs, a comforting embrace. I felt, for the first time in a long time, a sense of calm. A quiet acceptance. The act of shaving my head wasn't a spectacle. It was a deeply personal ritual, a stripping away of layers, a shedding of skin. With each stroke of the razor, I felt a sense of liberation, a release from the constraints of my past. The strands of hair, once a symbol of femininity, societal expectations, and family pride, fell to the floor, a tangible representation of the old me dissolving. The smooth, cool skin of my scalp felt strangely liberating. Beneath the weight of expectations, what had been hidden was revealed. I looked into the mirror, and a different person stared back. There was a strength in my eyes, a quiet confidence in my posture, that hadn’t been there before. I felt lighter, unburdened, free. The return journey was different. The landscape, once a blur of indistinct shapes, now seemed sharper, clearer. The familiar streets of my hometown felt strangely foreign. I was a stranger in a familiar land, different yet the same. The reaction of my family was… complex. My mother’s tears were a mix of fear and disappointment, a silent confession of her own struggles with societal expectations. My father, ever stoic, surprised me with a quiet acceptance, a recognition of the strength in my decision. My siblings, initially shocked, soon embraced the new me, their admiration evident in their eyes. Their understanding, though initially hesitant, became a source of comfort and support. In the following weeks, I navigated a myriad of emotions. There were moments of doubt, of questioning whether I had made the right decision. But these moments were fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the overwhelming sense of freedom and self-discovery that accompanied my new look. My shaved head became a symbol, a conversation starter. It was a testament to my courage, my resilience, my pursuit of authenticity. People reacted differently, some with curiosity, some with judgment, some with admiration. But none of their reactions could eclipse the profound sense of peace and contentment that emanated from within. My journey wasn't merely about shaving my head. It was about breaking free from the suffocating grip of expectations, embracing my individuality, and boldly carving my own path in the world. Looking back, the hum of the electric razor fades into a distant memory, replaced by the echo of my own liberated voice – a voice that, now, is finally free to speak its truth. And that, more than the smooth, shaved head, is the truest reflection of my transformation.

The night of headshave

 

It was a tense, hot summer evening when I first laid eyes on Suresh. The humid New Delhi air clung to my skin as I stood outside the Lakshmi Narayan Mandir, waiting for my arranged marriage to begin.

I was only 19, too young for matrimony in my opinion. But birth order and family pressures demanded obedience. Even though I had dreams of attending university and becoming a doctor someday, those were sacrificed for this union with a man twice my age.

Suresh looked prematurely old as he emerged from the temple. Gaunt and stooped, with a latticework of grey streaking his long, oily hair. Our eyes met and he flashed a crooked grin, revealing yellowing teeth. A shiver ran down my spine. This was to be my husband, my lord and master for the rest of my days.

The week after the wedding, I found myself alone in our home. Suresh had left for business in Chennai, leaving me to unpack and settle into my new life. As I put away his things, I discovered a letter opener in his desk drawer. The cold steel felt good in my hand.

An idea began to take shape, a wicked plan bubbling up from deep within me. I couldn't explain it, but something about Suresh infuriated me. Perhaps it was the way he slurped his tea, or how his toes curled like claws. Most of all, I despised his hair - thinning and unkempt, usually slicked back with grease.

I would shave it all off, I decided. It would be my revenge against this man who had stolen my future. I giggled at the thought of his bald, shiny head bobbing around once I was done with him.

Days passed and the anticipation grew. I could barely sleep or eat, so eager was I to enact my scheme. Finally, Suresh returned home, jet-lagged and exhausted from his trip. I made him a hot meal and poured him a whiskey before guiding him to the bathroom.

"You look so tired, my love," I cooed, starting the shower. "Why don't you relax and let me give you a shave? I've been wanting to try my hand at it."

Suresh grunted his agreement, too weary to argue. I had him sit on the closed toilet seat as I readied the razor. My hands shook slightly as I lathered up his neck and cheeks.

I shaved slowly, meticulously, my blade skimming over his skin. Suresh relaxed into my touch, eyes fluttering closed. I worked higher and higher, moving up the sides and back of his head. He shifted and I nicked his ear.

"Ow! Be careful, woman," he barked, opening his eyes.

"Sorry, my love," I apologized, soothing the cut with my fingertips. "You're just so very...hairy. It's difficult."

He harrumphed but closed his eyes again, trusting me completely. And so I finished the job, leaving him as bald as a newborn. His scalp was waxy and covered in age spots. I rubbed my hand over it, feeling a thrill.

"There, all done," I said brightly, rinsing off the razor. "You must be exhausted. Go rest while I clean up."

Suresh shuffled off to the bedroom without another word. I caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He looked ridiculous, like an angry egg. I couldn't hold back my laughter.

And so began my reign of terror over my new spouse. I reveled in my power, my control. Daily, I would shave his head with a straight razor, nicking him just enough to make him wince. He grew more and more subservient, not daring to cross me lest he lose his remaining hair.

I had friends over often, throwing parties where I paraded my bald, obedient husband in front of everyone. I'd run my hand over his slick head for all to see, my arm around his shoulders. They would smile and fawn over us, never suspecting the evil lurking beneath.

But Suresh knew. He could see it in my eyes, feel it in my touch. I whispered to him in the dark of night, my lips brushing his bare ears. "I own you now. I could carve you up like a pumpkin if I wanted. You belong to me."

And he would just nod, his hands gripping the sheets. I had become his God, and he my devoted subject. I thought I had him completely cowed, that he would never dare defy me.

Until the morning I woke up with a start, feeling the cold kiss of a blade against my throat. Suresh loomed over me, his bald head glinting in the moonlight. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out.

"You shaved too close," he hissed, his breath hot on my face. "You cut me deep. And now, it's your turn."

The razor dragged across my neck, a searing pain as my skin parted. I scrabbled at his hands but he was too strong. Suresh was no longer the meek man I had known. A flicker of the old Suresh shone in his eyes - the one I had glimpsed that day outside the temple. Perhaps he had never been the fool I took him for.

As my life drained out of me in a scarlet tide, I realized I had played the fool. I had misjudged Suresh, thinking myself above him. But in the end, he had been the one with the cunning and guile.

The last thing I saw was his leering bald face before the darkness took me. In my final moments, I cursed the day I had first laid eyes on him outside the temple. Some prayers, it seemed, were answered in terrible ways.

The headshave - Story of a Bald fetishes wife

 I’ve always been drawn to the smooth, unblemished expanse of a bald head. There’s something about it that thrills me, something that makes my heart race and my fingers itch. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by the idea of a man without hair—vulnerable, yet powerful, like a statue carved from marble. My friends and family think it’s odd, maybe even unnatural. But they don’t understand. To me, it’s art. It’s control. It’s perfection.

My name is Priya. I’m 28 years old, and I’ve been married to Rohan for three years. He’s a good man—kind, hardworking, and loving. But there’s one thing about him that’s always bothered me: his hair. Thick, black, and perfectly messy, it’s the kind of hair that every man envies and every woman adores. To me, it’s a barrier, a constant reminder of the imperfection that stands between us.

So, I made a plan.

It wasn’t easy. I had to wait for the right moment, the perfect opportunity to strike. Rohan is a man of routine, and I knew that one day, his routine would be his undoing. He works from home as a software engineer, spending hours in front of his computer. I knew that eventually, he’d need a break, a moment of relaxation. And that’s when I’d act.

One sweltering summer afternoon, Rohan decided to take a nap. He’d been working non-stop for weeks, and the heat was unbearable. I watched him lie down on the bed, his shirt off, his hair sticking to his forehead. My heart pounded in my chest as I crept into the bathroom and retrieved the shaving kit I’d been keeping there for weeks.

I stood over him for what felt like an eternity, my hands trembling. I wanted to do this, I told myself. I needed to do this. But what if he wakes up? What if he sees me? The thought sent a shiver down my spine, but I pushed it aside. This was too important.

I dampened his hair with a wet cloth, careful not to touch him too much. Then, I lathered his scalp with shaving cream, the foam glistening in the dim light of the room. I picked up the razor, my breath catching in my throat. The first stroke was the hardest. The blade glided across his skin, leaving a trail of smoothness in its wake. I couldn’t help but smile.

But then, Rohan stirred.

My heart nearly stopped. I froze, the razor pressed against his scalp, as his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, we just stared at each other—him confused, me terrified.

“Priya?” he mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. “What are you doing?”

I didn’t know what to say. My mind raced, but I couldn’t form a single coherent thought. All I could do was stand there, the razor still in my hand, as Rohan slowly sat up.

“Priya, what the hell are you doing?” he repeated, his voice sharper now. He reached up to touch his head, and his eyes widened in horror. “What have you done?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I kept shaving, my hands moving with a precision I didn’t know I possessed. The blade scraped against his scalp, the sound echoing in the silence of the room. Rohan tried to push me away, but I was too strong, too determined.

“Stop!” he shouted, grabbing my wrist. “Are you insane?”

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I was in a trance, driven by a desire I couldn’t control. The feel of the razor against his skin was intoxicating, the sight of his balding head a source of twisted pleasure.

Finally, I finished. Rohan’s head was smooth, completely devoid of hair. He stared at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and anger.

“You’re crazy,” he whispered. “What’s wrong with you?”

I stepped back, my chest heaving. “You should thank me,” I said, my voice steady now. “You look perfect.”

Rohan shook his head, his expression incredulous. “Perfect? Are you out of your mind? My hair was perfect. You’ve ruined me.”

I smiled, a cold, calculated smile. “No, Rohan. I’ve just begun.”

Over the next few weeks, things changed. Rohan stopped leaving the house, afraid of what people would think of his shaved head. He became withdrawn, barely speaking to me or anyone else. I watched him with a twisted sense of satisfaction, knowing that I’d taken control of his life.

But my plan wasn’t just about the hair. It was about something much bigger.

I’d been planning this for months, ever since I’d discovered Rohan’s secret. He’d been embezzling money from his company, millions of rupees that he’d stashed away in offshore accounts. I’d found the evidence hidden in his desk drawer one night, and I knew that with that kind of money, I could do anything.

So, I made a deal with him. If he agreed to do exactly as I said, I’d keep his secret. If he refused, I’d expose him to the world.

At first, he thought I was joking. But when I showed him the documents, the bank statements, the transfer records, he knew I wasn’t bluffing.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice laced with desperation.

“Because I can,” I replied. “And because you’re going to help me get what I want.”

I didn’t tell him what I wanted, not yet. But I would, soon enough.

For now, I was content with the power I held over him. And as I looked at his bald head, I couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of pride. I’d taken control of his life, just as I’d always wanted.

But this was just the beginning.

One night, as Rohan sat in front of the TV, his bald head glistening under the light, I walked over to him and handed him a piece of paper.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s a list,” I said. “A list of things you’re going to do for me.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mix of fear and defiance. “And if I don’t?”

I smiled, the same cold, calculated smile I’d given him weeks before. “You know what will happen if you don’t.”

He nodded, understanding. He had no choice.

And with that, my plan was set in motion.

I’d always known that I was capable of great things, but I’d never imagined that I’d go this far. But now, as I looked at Rohan, his bald head a reminder of my power, I realized that I was just getting started.

This was my game now, and Rohan was just a pawn.

But pawns can be sacrificed, and I was ready to do whatever it took to win.

After all, in a game of power and control, only the strongest survive.

And I was determined to be the strongest of all.

Headshave in anger

My hair. It was more than just hair. It was a river of black silk cascading down my back, a fragrant waterfall after a monsoon. It was my pride, my joy, my identity. In our small village in Kerala, it was everything. My grandmother used to say my hair held the blessings of Lakshmi, the goddess of beauty and prosperity. Others whispered that it was a tangible manifestation of my worth, a measure of my desirability as a bride. I, Meera, never asked for this burden of beauty. I only knew the daily rituals: the meticulous oiling with homemade coconut oil infused with hibiscus and amla, the slow, deliberate combing that my mother performed with reverence, the careful braiding that kept it from tangling in the tropical breeze. It was a constant, demanding presence, a silent testament to the expectations that shaped my life. Our household was simple, but comfortable. My father was a respected ayurvedic doctor, and my mother, a homemaker, managed everything with quiet efficiency. We also had Lakshmi, our house help, a woman several years older than me, who had been with our family since I was a child. Lakshmi was hardworking, but there was always a subtle edge to her demeanor, a flicker of envy that I never quite understood. She would often comment on my hair, her words dripping with a sweetness that felt artificial. “Such beautiful hair, Meera! You are so lucky. Mine will never grow like that.” I always felt a pang of discomfort. I'd offer to share my oiling secrets, but she'd wave it away with a dismissive hand. I tried to be friendly, to bridge the gap between us, but a wall seemed to exist, built brick by brick with unspoken resentments. The incident happened on a sweltering afternoon. My parents were away, attending a medical conference in the neighboring town. Lakshmi was the only other person in the house. I was in my room, reading, the whirring of the ceiling fan providing a meager defense against the oppressive heat. I heard Lakshmi calling me. “Meera, can you come here for a moment? I need help with something in the kitchen.” Trustingly, I went. The air in the kitchen was thick with the aroma of frying spices. Lakshmi stood by the stove, her back to me. “What is it, Lakshmi?” I asked. She turned, her face contorted in a way I had never seen before. Her eyes gleamed with a malicious intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. In her hand, she held a pair of large, rusty shears. Before I could react, she lunged. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the thick walls of the house. I fought, I kicked, I clawed, but she was surprisingly strong. She pinned me against the kitchen counter, her grip like iron. I saw the shears glinting in the dim light, felt the cold steel against my scalp. Then, the first snip. A shockwave of horror ripped through me as a thick chunk of my hair fell to the floor. It was as if a part of my soul had been severed. I screamed again, louder this time, but no one could hear me. Lakshmi's face was a mask of cruel satisfaction as she continued her brutal work, hacking away at my hair with savage glee. I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face. The smell of my own hair, freshly cut, filled my nostrils. The world seemed to spin, the sounds of my own ragged breaths echoing in my ears. When she was done, she released me. I stumbled back, clutching at the remnants of my hair, my body trembling uncontrollably. I looked at her, my eyes filled with disbelief and pain. “Why?” I managed to choke out. “Why would you do this?” Lakshmi simply smirked. “Because you have everything, Meera. Everything! You are beautiful, you are educated, you are loved. While I… I am nothing. This is for all the years I have spent in your shadow, for all the compliments you received, for all the happiness you have that I will never have.” She turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the fallen pieces of my former self. The days that followed were a blur of shock, grief, and anger. I refused to leave my room, unable to face the pitying stares and hushed whispers of the villagers. My parents returned, their faces etched with horror and disbelief. They called the police, but Lakshmi had vanished, leaving no trace behind. My mother tried to comfort me, to reassure me that I was still beautiful, that hair could grow back. But I couldn't hear her. I felt stripped bare, not just of my hair, but of my dignity, my identity. I was no longer Meera, the girl with the beautiful hair. I was just… Meera, the girl who had been violated, humiliated, and left with a gaping hole where her pride had once been. I looked in the mirror, and I didn't recognize the person staring back at me. Short, uneven tufts of hair framed a face that was pale and drawn. My eyes, once bright and full of life, were now hollow and haunted. I hated Lakshmi for what she had done, but I also hated the society that had placed so much importance on something as superficial as hair. Slowly, painstakingly, I began to piece myself back together. I started by focusing on things I could control. I started volunteering at my father's clinic, helping him treat patients. I immersed myself in books, devouring stories of strong women who had overcome adversity. I started practicing yoga and meditation, seeking solace and strength within myself. It wasn't easy. There were days when the pain was overwhelming, when I felt like giving up. But I refused to let Lakshmi win. I refused to let the oppressive beauty standards of my community define me. I decided to redefine myself, to create my own identity, one that was based on inner strength, resilience, and compassion. I started to see my short hair not as a symbol of my humiliation, but as a badge of honor, a reminder of my survival. I embraced it, styling it in ways that reflected my newfound confidence. I stopped trying to conform to the expectations of others and started living life on my own terms. It took time, but eventually, the healing began. I realised that true beauty wasn't about the length of my hair, but about the kindness in my heart, the strength of my spirit, and the courage to be myself. Years later, I became a lawyer, dedicating my life to fighting for justice for women who had been victims of violence and discrimination. I never forgot what Lakshmi had done, but I refused to let her define me. I used my experience to empower others, to help them find their own voices, to reclaim their own lives. One day, I received a letter. It was from Lakshmi. She was terminally ill and wanted to ask for my forgiveness. She admitted that her actions had been fueled by jealousy and insecurity, that she had regretted them ever since. It was a difficult decision, but I decided to visit her. When I saw her, she was frail and weak, her eyes filled with remorse. I listened to her apology, and I found that I could forgive her. Not because she deserved it, but because I deserved to let go of the anger and bitterness that had been poisoning my soul. Leaving the hospital, I looked up at the sky. The sun was setting, painting the clouds in hues of orange and gold. I smiled. My hair was still short, but it was healthy and strong. And so was I. I had finally found my true identity, not in the length of my hair, but in the strength of my spirit. I had become the woman I was always meant to be, a woman who had been broken, but not defeated, a woman who had risen from the ashes, stronger and more beautiful than ever before.

Scary headshave

 

The humid Kolkata air hung heavy, thick with the scent of jasmine and diesel. It usually soothed me, a familiar blanket woven from my childhood. But today, it felt like a suffocating shroud. My fingers instinctively reached for the back of my head, a phantom sensation of cascading black silk. It wasn't there. It was all gone. I am Anjali. Or rather, I was Anjali, the girl known for her hair. My hair was my identity, my pride, passed down through generations of women in my family. It flowed past my waist, thick and lustrous, the kind of hair that drew gasps of admiration and envious glances. Amma used to say it held the stories of our ancestors, woven into each strand. Now, it held nothing but the ghost of memories. It started subtly, a creeping unease I initially dismissed as paranoia. Lakshmi, our family's long-time servant, had always been… present. She’d been with us since I was a child, a permanent fixture in our lives. She cooked, cleaned, and ran errands, her face etched with a perpetual frown that I assumed was just her nature. But lately, her gaze lingered a beat too long when I wore my hair down. Her compliments, once infrequent, became almost daily, dripping with a syrup-sweetness that left a bitter taste in my mouth. "Your hair is truly blessed, Anjali-di," she’d say, her eyes glinting in a way that made me shiver. I confided in Amma, but she brushed it off. "Lakshmi is just getting old, Anjali. Don't read too much into it. She's been with us for years, like family." Family. The word stuck in my throat. Family doesn’t make you feel like prey. The day it happened is etched into my memory with excruciating clarity. It was a Tuesday, the day Lakshmi traditionally went to the market. Amma was out visiting her sister, and I was home alone, studying for my upcoming law exams. The house felt eerily quiet, the usual cacophony of Kolkata muted to a low hum. Lakshmi returned earlier than expected, her face flushed, her eyes darting nervously. “Anjali-di,” she said, her voice trembling. “There’s a… a problem with the pipes in the bathroom. The plumber needs to see it, and he needs you to move some things.” It seemed strange – Lakshmi always handled these things. But I was distracted, my mind tangled in legal jargon. I followed her to the bathroom, the cool tiles a welcome contrast to the humid air. That's when it happened. As I bent down to move a basket of laundry, a cloth was thrown over my head, thick and suffocating. I screamed, a muffled cry swallowed by the fabric. Strong hands pinned my arms behind my back. Panic exploded in my chest, a frantic bird beating against its cage. I struggled, kicking and thrashing, but I was no match for their combined strength. I felt a cold, metallic object press against my scalp. The horrifying realization dawned on me a split second before the first snip. A jagged, uneven cut, close to my scalp. Then another, and another, each snip a violation, a piece of me being ripped away. The smell of cut hair filled the air, a sickly sweet odor that I can still taste in my nightmares. Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent beneath the cloth. I was helpless, completely vulnerable. The assault felt like an eternity, but it was probably only minutes. Finally, the cloth was ripped away, and I stumbled back, gasping for air. I stood there, blinking in the dim light, my hands flying to my head. My fingers met smooth, bare skin. My hair was gone. All of it. Shaved off, leaving me with a raw, stinging scalp. I looked up, my vision blurred with tears, and saw Lakshmi standing before me, scissors clutched in her hand, her face twisted into a grotesque mask of triumph and… pity? Behind her stood a burly man, his face hidden behind a cheap surgical mask. He reeked of cheap cigarettes and fear. He wouldn't meet my eyes. “Why?” I choked out, my voice barely a whisper. “Why, Lakshmi?” She didn’t answer immediately. She just stood there, breathing heavily, her eyes fixed on my bare scalp. Then, she spoke, her voice low and venomous. “For years, I have lived in your shadow, Anjali-di. Watched you parade around with your precious hair, your pretty clothes, your perfect life. Looked at your Amma favouring you, praising you. I had to work for every scrap, every kind word. You got everything handed to you on a silver platter. This... this is what you deserve.” She spat on the floor at my feet. The man behind her shifted uncomfortably. He clearly hadn’t signed up for this emotional mess. “Your hair was your power, Anjali-di. Now you have nothing.” Then, she was gone. She and the man melted back into the bustling streets of Kolkata, leaving me alone in the bathroom, stripped bare, both physically and emotionally. The police investigation was a joke. Lakshmi had disappeared without a trace. The man was never identified. The police filed it as a petty crime, a domestic dispute gone wrong. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. It wasn’t just about the hair. It was about power, about envy, about a deep-seated resentment that had festered for years. I spent weeks locked in my room, refusing to see anyone. The shame was overwhelming. I felt exposed, vulnerable, like a broken doll. My Amma tried to comfort me, but her words felt hollow, inadequate. She couldn't comprehend the violation, the raw, gaping wound that had been inflicted upon my soul. Eventually, the tears dried up. The initial shock gave way to a burning anger. I was a law student, for God's sake. I wasn't going to let Lakshmi’s act define me. I wouldn't let her win. I started wearing scarves, elaborate silk creations that hid my bald head. It was a shield, a way to reclaim some semblance of control. I threw myself into my studies, fueled by a relentless desire to prove myself, to prove her wrong. My anger sharpened my focus, honed my legal skills. I became a force to be reckoned with, a passionate advocate for the voiceless. I found strength in my vulnerability, in the knowledge that I had survived a brutal attack and emerged stronger, more resilient. Years have passed. My hair has grown back, not as long or as thick as it once was, but it is mine. I still wear scarves sometimes, a reminder of what happened, a symbol of my resilience. I know Lakshmi is out there somewhere, living with the consequences of her actions. And I know that one day, I will find her. Not for revenge, but for justice. Because what she did was more than just cutting hair. It was an act of violence, a violation of my very being. And I will not rest until she is held accountable. I am Anjali. And I am more than my hair. I am a survivor. And I will have my justice.