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.