After months of scrolling through headshaving blogs and watching endless videos of women shedding their locks, I finally hit a breaking point. I’m Harsha, 25, and for over a year, I’d been dealing with thinning hair that made me feel more insecure than empowered. I kept postponing the big day—festivals, trips, weddings—there was always an excuse. I was terrified of how I’d look as a baldgirl and even more afraid of the whispers.
But on October 3rd, the hesitation died. I called my stylist at 9:00 AM. "I’ll be there at 9:00 PM," I told her. "Don't close early." I didn't mention the headshave.
The day was a blur of nerves. At 8:50 PM, I told my father I was heading out to get it all taken off. To his stunned silence, I grabbed my phone, a snug black beanie, and drove my scooter to the salon. When I arrived, the shop was busy. I sat in the corner, heart drumming against my ribs, hiding behind a local magazine until the last customer left.
Finally, it was just me and my stylist, a woman who had trimmed my hair for years. She draped a fresh, crisp cape around my neck, tucking it tight. As she reached for her comb, I took a deep breath. "I want a smooth shaved head. All of it. Use a straight razor."
She froze for a full five seconds. "Are you sure? Why?" It took twenty minutes of convincing her that I was ready to let go. She started by wetting my long hair and using clippers to take it down to a short buzz first. As the heavy tresses hit the floor, I felt the first wave of lightness. Then, I gave her the nod.
She began the ritual. She massaged my scalp with warm water for five minutes, softening the stubble. The sound was a rhythmic, squelching massage that echoed in my ears. Then, she drew the straight razor, snapped a fresh blade in half with a sharp clack, and slid it into the handle.
She started at the crown. The sound was incredible—a crisp, sandpaper-like scritch-scritch-scritch that I felt deep in my skull. As the first path was cleared, a sudden, icy-cool breeze swept over my exposed scalp. It was an instant, electric rush. She moved quickly, but I whispered for her to slow down so I could savor it.
The razor felt like a cold finger tracing my skin. Scritch, scritch. The weight of 25 years of hair was being peeled away. Within minutes, the back was done. Then she cleared the left side, moving near my ear where the blade’s rasp sounded like a loud, rhythmic whisper. I looked in the mirror, watching my reflection transform into a baldgirl. Half of me felt a pang of "What have I done?" but the other half felt a radical, soaring freedom.
She applied more foam and did a second pass against the grain for perfection. The skin felt like wet marble. When she finished, my bald head was gleaming under the salon lights, perfectly clean and smooth. I paid her, pulled on my beanie to hide my secret, and drove home. That night, I rubbed essential oils into my scalp, the skin tingling and prickly against my pillow. It felt like I was finally vibrating at my own frequency.
By January, my hair had grown into a chic, thick pixie cut—just in time for my brother’s wedding. Everyone complimented me on how healthy and lush my hair looked, assuming the "break" had done it wonders.
But as I stood in the wedding hall, surrounded by family, I wasn't thinking about my styling. I felt the weight of the hair on my neck and the heat trapped against my scalp, and I felt claustrophobic. I looked at my reflection in a silver tray and realized I didn't feel like "myself" with hair anymore. I felt like a stranger wearing a costume. As soon as the reception ended, I didn't go to the after-party. I drove straight back to that salon, the straight razor already waiting in my mind.
