Headshave Vow - Headshave 2025

My name is Pavithra, but everyone calls me Pavi. I like it short and sweet, a nickname I chose for myself. What I would never choose to shorten, however, was my hair. It was my glory, my identity. A thick, wavy waterfall of black silk that tumbled all the way down to my legs. I was proud of it, this living mantle I’d cultivated for years. My husband loved it too, or so I thought. He’d always vetoed my desire to get it straightened, warning me about hair fall, preserving its natural state. I’d always listened. It all changed with a phone call. My husband had been away in Shimla for training for months, and I was alone in our Mumbai flat. One night, he called, his voice buzzing with excitement. “Pavi, I got the promotion!” I was thrilled for him, until he said the words that made my blood run cold. “And now you have to fulfil my vow. I promised that if I got this, you would offer your hair at Tirumala Tirupati.” I laughed, thinking it was a joke. “What are you talking about? Shave my head? You can’t be serious.” His voice was firm. “I’m completely serious, Pavi. It’s a vow. When I come home, I expect to see you with a bald head. And I want pictures. A 'before' picture with all your hair, and an 'after' one, completely shaved. I’m eager to see your tonsure.” The line went quiet except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. He had taken the thing I loved most about myself and turned it into a bargaining chip without my consent. After a long, tearful argument, I knew I had lost. I was trapped. That weekend, my heart a heavy stone in my chest, I booked a bus ticket to Tirumala. On the bus, I sat by the window, my heavy hair braided down my back, feeling like a condemned woman. A kind-faced woman with a beautiful, long braid of her own sat next to me. “Your hair is beautiful,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Girija.” “Pavi,” I managed to say. “Thank you. Yours is too.” We fell into easy conversation, and the inevitable question came up. “So, you’re going for a darshan at Tirumala?” she asked. I took a deep breath. “For a tonsure, actually. I have to… shave my head.” Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she broke into an even bigger smile. “No way! Me too!” I was stunned. “You’re getting your head shaved? But you seem so happy about it.” “I am!” she laughed. “My hair has been falling out from stress, and I wanted to cut it short anyway. My mother-in-law would never allow a haircut, but she insisted on a tonsure for a prayer she made. It’s the perfect solution! I’m actually looking forward to it.” Just then, a young woman boarded, looking for a seat. She had the most incredible hair I had ever seen, a straight, silky sheet that fell past her waist to her knees. She looked miserable. We made room for her by the window. As she settled in, she listlessly tied her hair up. “I’m Shivya,” she mumbled, noticing us looking. “My hair is a pain.” Girija, ever the optimist, said, “We were just talking about our hair! We’re Pavi and Girija. And we’re both on our way to shave our heads.” Shivya’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You too? I thought I was the only one. My mom made a vow years ago. Now she’s forcing me. She even threatened to cut my hair in my sleep if I refused.” And just like that, we were a strange little club. Three women on a bus, all with cascades of long hair, all heading to the same fate for entirely different reasons. Girija, the willing one; Shivya, the resigned one; and me, the heartbroken one. Girija took on the role of our cheerleader. “Don’t worry,” she told us, “I’ll be with you both. It’ll be an adventure!” When we finally reached the tonsure hall, the reality of it hit me like a physical blow. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and hair. We stood in line, my stomach churning. I had braided my hair into two thick pigtails, a last, childish attempt to hold onto it. Girija went first. She sat in the chair with a serene smile, giving the barber her token. He drenched her head with water, her long, dark braid turning into a slick rope. He took his straight razor, and with a confident motion, scraped a clean, wide path right down the middle of her scalp. The sight was shocking—the dark hair falling away to reveal pale, virgin skin beneath. In minutes, the barber’s razor was gliding efficiently over her head, and Girija, my brave friend, was beautifully and completely bald. She ran a hand over her newly smooth scalp, a look of genuine delight on her face. Then, it was my turn. My legs felt like lead as I walked to the chair. Girija, now holding my camera, gave me a thumbs-up. “Ask him to cut the pigtails first,” she whispered. I nodded numbly and sat down. The barber took a pair of scissors. There was a loud SNIP, and my right pigtail was gone. I felt a sudden, dizzying lightness on one side of my head. SNIP. The second one fell into my lap. I stared at the two thick, lifeless ropes of hair that had been a part of me for my entire adult life. Then the water came, cold and shocking on my now-short hair. The barber lathered my head, and I closed my eyes, tears finally spilling over. I felt the first touch of the blade. It was cold steel against my scalp, followed by a strange, tingling scrape. I could hear it, a faint, rhythmic sound as the razor did its work, shearing away the last of my stubble. With each pass, more of my scalp was exposed to the cool air of the hall. It felt incredibly vulnerable, incredibly final. Girija was taking photos, documenting this bizarre, violating ritual for my husband. After what felt like an eternity, the barber wiped my head with a towel. It was over. I slowly raised a trembling hand to my head. It felt alien. There was no hair, no texture, just the smooth, warm curve of my own skull. I was bald. Pavi, the girl whose identity was her leg-length hair, was gone. Finally, it was Shivya’s turn. She sat silently, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek as the barber gathered her immense curtain of hair. Within minutes, she joined our club. We stood together outside, a trio of bald women. The breeze felt incredible, a sensation I’d never known, dancing directly on my scalp. We took photos of each other, not with sadness, but with a strange sense of shared victory. We came from different places, with different stories, but we were bound by this single, transformative act. I sent the ‘after’ photo to my husband, my finger hovering over the send button. His vow was fulfilled. But as I stood there, feeling the sun on my new, smooth-shaved head, I realized something else had happened. I had lost my hair, but I had found two sisters, and maybe, just maybe, a different kind of strength I never knew I had.