I was a 22-year-old girl with cascading, hip-length hair. Inspired by the bohemian aesthetic of Captain Jack Sparrow, I had spent years meticulously maintaining my tresses. I was fiercely protective of them; I never allowed anyone to touch a single strand. My identity was tied to my hair.
But one day, everything changed. My uncle called to say my grandmother had passed away. My parents and I rushed to our ancestral village. When the 10th day—the daskarm—arrived, tradition dictated a ritual sacrifice. Usually, it was for the men, but in our specific clan’s tradition, the eldest granddaughter was also expected to undergo a headshave.
I flatly refused. My parents tried to support me, but the village elders were unyielding. They insisted it was a sacred custom. Panicked, I tried to flee to a neighboring town, but my cousins were dispatched to bring me back for my appointment with the blade.
One cousin eventually tracked me down. He lied, saying the villagers had changed their minds, and led me back to the group. Once there, he let out a mocking laugh. "Fooled you," he smirked. I turned to run, but my elder cousins grabbed me by my long ponytail. I sobbed and pleaded, but they dragged me toward the village barber.
The barber didn't have a shop; he worked from the corridor of his home. My cousins pushed me toward him, shouting, "Iska fatafat mundan karo, ek bhi baal nahi bachna chahiye!" (Give her a quick tonsure, not a single hair should remain!) Seeing my tears, the barber hesitated, but my cousin invoked the name of my uncle, the village Panchayat leader. The barber sighed and nodded.
"You look like a princess with this hair," he whispered, "but soon you will be a baldgirl."
Because I wouldn't stop struggling, they moved the ritual to the secluded lakeside. To ensure I couldn't run away again, they forced me to remove my outer clothes, leaving me shivering and exposed. I hid behind a large bush, mortified, as the barber approached with his kit. My cousin yelled out, "Make sure it's a completely smooth shaved head. Shave it so close that it takes months for the hair to return!"
The barber knelt beside me. "It's okay, beta," he said gently. "It will grow back." He looked at my cousins for the final signal. They nodded. He poured a bowl of cool water over my scalp, massaging the moisture into my long, thick hair. "Your hair is truly magnificent," he remarked before tilting my chin down.
He unfolded his straight razor. I felt the cold steel touch the very top of my scalp. With the first stroke down the middle, a massive weight lifted. I felt a sudden, sharp cooling breeze hit my skin. He tilted my head to the right, and a heavy lump of dark hair slid off my shoulder and into my lap. Then he tilted my head to the left, and the rest followed.
The headshaving took only a few minutes. I kept my eyes squeezed shut until he whispered that he was finished. He handed me a small hand-mirror.
I stared. I didn't recognize the person looking back. My bald head was pale and gleaming, reflecting the sunlight off the water. I was a baldgirl. The embarrassment was overwhelming as my cousins laughed at my new look, and I spent the rest of the week hiding under a scarf.
Now, months have passed. My hair has grown back about two inches, a soft fuzz covering my scalp. But I find myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror every morning, rubbing my palm against the grain of my hair and missing the sensation of the wind on my bare skin.
I realized the tears I shed that day weren't just for my lost hair—they were for the girl I used to be. I’ve realized I don't want my long hair back. In fact, I just bought my own straight razor. I think it's time for another headshave.
