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.