Foreced headshave by Family - Headshave 2025

"Mommy! I can't do that!" I screamed, the words tearing from my throat. "Chandra, there's no other way," she whispered, refusing to meet my eyes. "You know what your father will do if you refuse..." I knew. I knew all too well. I once protested taking the bus to school, wanting to ride my bicycle instead. The "treatment" my father gave me for that simple act of defiance still made my skin crawl. "But Mommy, I'm in college now! I'm not a toy for him to control," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "I can't argue with him, Chandra," she said, her voice flat. "He'll be home tonight. You'll have to speak to him yourself." She turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the cold dread coiling in my stomach. It had all started two weeks ago. My father, a stubborn and short-tempered man, was losing money in his business. He brought home an astrologer who declared I was under a curse. The only remedy, he claimed, was a "unique offering" to appease the gods. To my horror, my father’s idea of unique was for the entire family to have their heads shaved at our ancestral temple. My head. Shaved. The thought was a physical blow. What would my friends say when they saw me completely bald? My beautiful, thick, butt-length hair, gone. That night, I stood before my father, trembling. He gave me a single, dismissive glance. "We're going to our native place tomorrow," he stated, not asked. "Get ready. We will all be getting tonsured." Tears streamed down my face instantly. "Pa, please... I'll roll around the temple a hundred times, but please, not my hair! Why do I have to shave my head?" His face hardened. "How dare you?" he roared, and the slap came so fast I barely registered the sting before my cheek was burning. "You think your education gives you the right to oppose me? In my house, you obey! Now go pack. We leave in thirty minutes." Sobbing, I stumbled to my room. The next day was a blur of misery. We arrived at the temple, a place bustling with relatives for a festival. The whispers followed me everywhere. I could see the pity in my cousins' eyes. My pride, my glorious mane of rich, chocolate-brown hair that my friends openly envied, was about to be sacrificed. My father led us to a designated area behind the temple. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and antiseptic. I saw several barbers working quickly, their razors flashing in the sun. My father went first, sitting on the stool without a word. In less than five minutes, his head was bare and gleaming. Then it was Mom's turn. I watched, mesmerized by the horror. The barber doused her hair with water, worked in a rough shampoo, and sent her to the nearby pond to rinse. When she returned, dripping, he combed her soaked hair, parting it down the middle and tying each side into a thick, wet rope. He picked up a large manual clipper. The metallic snick-snick sound was sickeningly loud as he sheared the hair right at the scalp. The two great locks of her hair fell away, and he tossed them aside like trash. Then came the shaving cream. He worked it into a thick, white lather across her remaining stubble. He pulled out a straight razor, its steel edge catching the light. He wiped the blade on his palm, tilted my mother's head forward, and began to shave. The first stroke was right down the crown of her head, the razor gliding effortlessly, peeling away the white foam to reveal a patch of pale, utterly smooth skin. He moved with practiced speed, turning her head, stretching the skin, the blade making a soft, hissing sound. Soon, her entire head was a perfectly bald, gleaming orb. She was a stranger. And then, it was my turn. Reluctantly, I took the seat. My heart hammered against my ribs. Another barber, this one a woman, gestured for me to sit on a low wooden stool inside a canvas enclosure. Her eyes were professional, devoid of pity. She took a comb and ran it through my dry hair one last time, the familiar weight of it on my back a painful farewell. Then she sectioned it, binding each half tightly with rubber bands. She picked up a pair of shears. The cold metal pressed against my neck, just above the bands. SNIP. A huge weight vanished from my right side. I watched in shock as she held up the thick, twenty-inch ponytail before dropping it on a cloth. SNIP. The other side was gone. In seconds, I was left with a ragged, boyish cut. She ran her hands over my head, her fingers mapping the terrain she was about to conquer. She took the clippers and went to work on the remaining length, bringing it all down to a uniform, prickly stubble. I shivered as cool air hit my scalp for the first time. The sound was a loud, invasive buzz right next to my ears. Then came the lather. She worked the shaving cream in with a stiff brush, the bristles scratching against my head. The smell was clean and soapy. Soon, my entire scalp was a helmet of white foam. I couldn't even feel the stubble anymore. She produced her straight razor. "Hold still," she said softly. I squeezed my eyes shut. I felt the cold, flat side of the blade press against my forehead to position it. Then, with an unnerving, whisper-soft sound, it began to glide. The first pass was from my hairline back over the crown. I could feel the gentle, scraping pressure as the blade shaved the scalp clean, leaving a trail of impossibly smooth skin in its wake. There was no pain, just the bizarre sensation of being systematically un-haired. She tilted my head forward, her hand firm on my crown, and began long, methodical strokes down the back of my neck. Each pass of the razor took more of me away, the feeling of the sharp edge against my vulnerable skin sending shivers down my spine. She worked around my ears, carefully pulling them down to get every last bit. When she finished, she ran her palm over the entire surface. Dissatisfied with some imperceptible roughness, she re-lathered a few spots and went over them again. Finally, she wiped my head with a wet cloth. "It is done," she said. I slowly raised a hand to my head. My fingers met not hair, not even stubble, but skin. It was shockingly, unbelievably smooth. Warmer than I expected. I followed the curve of my own skull, a shape I had never known. I felt utterly exposed, like a raw nerve. Catching my reflection in a small, warped mirror nearby, a gasp escaped my lips. I didn't recognize the person staring back. The face was mine, but the bald head was alien, stark and vulnerable. My features seemed harsher, my eyes bigger and filled with a despair I'd never known. This was it. This was the humiliation. I wept, deep, gut-wrenching sobs that shook my whole body. After bathing, my mother handed me a simple yellow blouse and petticoat. Dressed in the humble clothes, I went out and performed the ritual, rolling my body fifteen times over the dusty temple corridor. With every turn, the rough stone scraped against my bare, sensitive scalp. I closed my eyes and prayed, not to the god my father was trying to appease, but to any force that might be listening. "Please," I begged silently, "let this be the first and last time. Let me never feel this shame again." It was a prayer for my hair to return, but more than that, it was a prayer for myself.