Rajvishnu
Mythili didn’t dislike her hair—far from it. She revered it. Her thick, cascading tresses shimmered like liquid silk under the sun, catching compliments like a net catches fireflies. But somewhere along the line, her admiration became a burden. Her hair had become more than just a feature—it had become a mantle, a mask, a myth. Everyone around her had woven it into their idea of her: the “girl with the beautiful hair.” A living portrait of elegance, charm, and restraint.
And yet… deep within her, tucked away in the quiet folds of her soul, was a secret she had never dared to speak. An obsession. A fascination. A longing so intimate it felt almost shameful: she wanted to be bald.
Not just out of curiosity, not as a fleeting whim—but as a deep, almost sensual yearning. The idea had taken root years ago, quietly, subtly, like a vine wrapping itself around her heart. She would watch videos of women shaving their heads late at night, the sound of clippers buzzing like a lullaby in the dark. She would pause at photos of bald women in glossy magazines, drawn to their radiant confidence, the raw beauty of their exposed skin. There was something sacred in their shedding, something erotically pure. A silent rebellion against the tyranny of image.
It wasn’t just about the aesthetics. For Mythili , the thought of being bald stirred something deeper, something ancient. It felt like peeling away the layers that the world had draped on her shoulders—the expectations, the praise, the perfection. Each strand of hair had become a thread in the fabric of who others wanted her to be. And she? She wanted to unravel it all.
In secret, she would stand before the mirror, parting her hair slowly, imagining the razor sliding across her scalp. Her fingers would trail along her temples, pressing down as if already feeling the smoothness beneath. She would close her eyes and see herself reborn—bare, bold, and breathtaking in her bareness. In those moments, she wasn’t just fantasizing. She was worshipping an idea. An act of surrender. A form of liberation that felt almost illicit in its intensity.
But she kept it hidden. Tucked away beneath dutiful smiles and perfectly parted braids. Her mother, Sharda, adored her daughter’s hair with near religious fervor. Every morning, she would sit behind Mythili , fingers weaving through those long locks like she was sculpting pride itself. “This is your crown,” Sharda would say, her voice tinged with reverence. “Not every girl is blessed with such beauty.” Mythili would nod, smile, and say nothing. How could she tell her mother that the crown felt like a chain?
Years passed with this quiet ache nestled under her ribs. She played the role of the good daughter, the graceful student, the beauty everyone admired. But in private, her love for baldness grew stronger, more personal. It wasn’t just an idea anymore—it was a fantasy she nursed in the quiet, a secret that pulsed like a heartbeat. She dreamed of stepping out, bare-scalped, head held high, shedding every ounce of expectation like strands on the salon floor.
And then, one golden afternoon, the dam broke.
Sunlight poured into her room, warming the pages of a book she had been reading on Zen philosophy. One line struck her like a gong echoing through her chest: “To be truly free, you must let go of what you think defines you.” The words wrapped around her secret and pulled it to the surface. It was time.
Mythili sat at the dining table, her fingers slowly tracing the rim of her coffee mug. Her long hair was tied up in a loose bun, strands slipping free around her face. Sharda sat across from her, scrolling through her phone until she sensed something was on Mythili ’s mind.
“Mom,” Mythili said softly, hesitating for a moment. “Can I talk to you about something?”
Sharda looked up, instantly attentive. “Of course, sweetheart. What is it?”
Mythili glanced down, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve been thinking about… getting a haircut.”
“Are you sure about this, Mythili ?” Sharda asked again, a soft concern in her voice as she sat on the edge of the sofa. “You’ve always cherished your hair. I thought it was something you were proud of.”
Mythili was standing near the window, nervously twirling the end of her long, dark hair around her fingers. Her heart was pounding. She had rehearsed this moment countless times, but now that it was here, the words felt heavier than ever.
“I am proud of it, Mom,” she said quietly, still looking outside. “But… I don’t know. Lately it feels like I’m carrying something that isn’t even mine anymore. Like I’m holding on to an image people expect, not something I actually chose for myself.”
Sharda tilted her head, listening, sensing there was more beneath the surface.
Mythili turned, facing her slowly. “I’ve been thinking of getting a haircut. A short one.”
Sharda blinked, processing. “Short… like a bob?”
Mythili hesitated. “Maybe shorter. Like… really short. Close to the scalp. Or maybe a boycut. I haven’t decided exactly. Just something… different.”
A pause hung in the air. Sharda didn’t respond immediately, and Mythili ’s pulse quickened.
“You’ve always had such beautiful hair,” Sharda said finally, softly. “People notice it. Compliment you on it. But I understand if you’re craving something new. It’s your choice.”
That bit of acceptance gave Mythili a flicker of courage, but she still couldn’t bring herself to say shaved. She shifted slightly and said, “I’ve seen pictures—women with buzzcuts, or even completely bald—and they just look so powerful. Like they’ve let go of everything. It makes me wonder what that kind of freedom feels like.”
Sharda raised her eyebrows, but not in disapproval. “Bald, huh? That’s… bold.”
“I know,” Mythili said, quickly, “I’m not saying I’ll go bald. Just… I want to feel what it’s like to not be defined by this.” She motioned to her hair. “Even if it’s just close-cropped. I don’t know how short yet.”
Sharda was silent for a moment. Then she stood up, walked to a nearby drawer, and began rummaging through some old albums. “You know,” she said as she pulled out a slightly yellowed photo and handed it to Mythili , “I’ve been where you are.”
Mythili took the photo and stared. It was Sharda—maybe in her early twenties—smiling at the camera in jeans and a kurti, her hair cut into a clean, no-nonsense boycut.
“You had short hair?” Mythili said, wide-eyed.
“Oh yes. I chopped it off during college. I was tired of oiling, braiding, brushing, tying. One day, I walked into a salon and told them to cut it all off. The stylist looked at me twice. My friends didn’t recognize me for a week.”
Mythili laughed softly, still staring at the photo.
“I remember how light my head felt. The wind on my neck. And the way people’s eyes widened… I felt like I had done something outrageous, but also something deeply personal. Like I had broken some invisible rule.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” Mythili murmured.
“You really want to go that short?” Sharda asked gently, studying her.
Mythili looked down. “I do. Actually… I’ve even thought about shaving it all off. Just once. Just to feel it. But I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”
Sharda’s eyes didn’t widen this time. She exhaled slowly and sat beside her daughter.
“I had a friend in college who shaved her head once,” she said. “People stared. Some whispered. But she walked around campus with her chin up and eyes shining. She said it was the most powerful she had ever felt. I envied her.”
Mythili ’s eyes filled. “I’ve watched videos, read blogs. It’s not just about beauty, Mom. It’s about shedding layers. Expectations. Even pain, maybe. I want to know who I am underneath all of this.”
Sharda reached out, brushing her fingers through Mythili ’s hair slowly, lovingly. “You know what? If you had told me this a few years ago, I might’ve freaked out,” she said with a smile. “But now… I see what you mean.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do,” Sharda said firmly. “Hair is just hair. It grows back. But if shaving it off will help you feel free—truly free—then you have my support. A hundred percent.”
Mythili blinked rapidly, emotion threatening to spill. “Really?”
“I’ll even come with you to the salon, if you want,” Sharda said, laughing lightly. “And if you do go bald, we’ll get matching jhumkas. Make it your bold, beautiful statement.”
Mythili burst into laughter, the sound bubbling up with a mix of relief and joy. Without thinking twice, she reached over and wrapped her arms tightly around her mother.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling just slightly. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Sharda hugged her back, a little surprised by the intensity of the moment, but holding her daughter just as tightly. “Of course, Mythili . Always. You don’t need my permission, you know that. But I’m glad you shared it with me.”
Mythili pulled back, her eyes shining. “I was honestly so nervous. I didn’t know how you’d react.”
Sharda smiled, brushing a thumb across Mythili ’s cheek. “I might’ve needed a moment, yes, but I can see how important this is to you. That kind of clarity doesn’t come overnight. And the way you spoke about it… it’s not just a haircut. It’s something bigger.”
Mythili nodded, a secret satisfaction blooming quietly inside her. Her long-held desire—the fantasy she’d never dared to voice—was finally within reach. A shaved head. The feel of freedom, of smooth skin, of shedding every expectation.
And now, her mother’s blessing.
She didn’t need to explain the rest. Not now. Maybe not ever. This was something she was doing for her, something rooted deep in her own identity. And though Sharda didn’t know the full story, her support was more than enough.
“I think I’m ready,” Mythili said, her voice filled with a lightness Sharda hadn’t heard in a long time. “Really ready. I don’t know exactly how short yet—maybe a boycut… maybe even… close to the scalp. But whatever it is, I want it to be bold.”
Sharda chuckled, shaking her head fondly. “You get that fire from me, you know. I may not have shaved it all off, but my college boycut? I remember how freeing it felt. I felt like I owned the world.”
Mythili laughed again. “Well, I want a piece of that power too.”
“You already have it,” Sharda said with a wink. “But sure, go take a little more.”
Mythili stepped out of the house, her heart thudding in her chest with every step. The sun was mild, the streets quiet—it was a typical Wednesday afternoon. Her feet carried her toward the small salon she’d noticed just a few days ago. It wasn’t fancy. No frills, no glass displays. Just a clean signboard with “Ravi Gents Hairdressers” painted in bold blue letters.
She pushed the glass door open, a small bell jingling as she stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of talcum powder and sandalwood. One chair was occupied—a young boy was getting his hair buzzed down by a middle-aged barber in a striped polo shirt.
“Namaste, Madam,” the barber said, glancing up with a warm smile. “Please have a seat. Just finishing up with him.”
Mythili nodded, her voice caught in her throat for a second. “No hurry,” she said softly, settling into the plastic waiting chair.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the boy in the chair. The clippers buzzed steadily, moving up the sides of his head with practiced ease. Locks of hair fell to the floor like feathers. The boy sat patiently, used to the process. His mother sat outside, chatting on the phone, completely at ease.
Mythili couldn’t take her eyes off the motion of the clippers. The way they cleared everything with one sweep. The smoothness of the scalp revealed underneath. She felt her breath quicken—not from nerves, but from something deeper. A yearning. A fascination.
Could she really do this?
When the barber finished the boy’s haircut, he dusted off his neck with a brush and smiled at Mythili again. “Your turn, Madam.”
Mythili stood up slowly, her palms just a little damp. She walked over and sat in the chair, suddenly aware of the sound of the fan above, the quiet rustle of the cape as he draped it around her shoulders.
Mythili sat nervously in the salon chair, her pulse quickening as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. It felt surreal—this was the moment she had been imagining for so long. She had dreamed about this day, this very feeling, and now, finally, she was here. The anticipation was almost intoxicating, her heart pounding in rhythm with the soft hum of the salon.
“So, what style would you like?” the barber asked again, his fingers gently lifting her thick, dark braid, feeling the weight of it.
Mythili took a breath, heart pounding. “I want to go really short,” she said, her voice calm but resolute.
“How short?” he asked, lifting her hair higher, letting it sway slightly as he examined its length.
She pointed to a spot just above her ears. “Maybe two inches… close to the scalp.”
The barber raised an eyebrow. “All the same length? A full buzz?”
Mythili hesitated, then glanced at the boy who had just left, his head neatly faded, the back almost bare. “Something like what you gave him… shorter at the back. That clean look.”
“Ah, a tapered buzzcut,” he nodded. “Shorter at the nape, around the ears. It’ll be very close. You’re sure?”
She nodded, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes. I want to feel it.”
The barber gave a small, approving hum, and reached for a fresh cape. He fastened it snugly around her neck, tucking it under her chin. The weight of it settled on her shoulders. Mythili ’s fingers gripped the arms of the chair, her pulse racing.
Her mind began to buzz almost louder than the clippers she was about to hear. Memories flashed through her—videos she had secretly watched late at night: women, some teary-eyed, some laughing, sitting in salon chairs as buzzing clippers reduced their hair to stubble. She had watched them over and over. Now, it was her.
The barber selected a #16 clipper guard, snapped it onto the machine with a click, and switched it on.
Bzzzzzzzzzz.
The sound hit her like a wave. Her scalp tingled in anticipation.
Without another word, he placed his hand on top of her head, tilting it slightly forward. Mythili closed her eyes. The first pass began—straight down the middle of her crown.
The vibration of the clippers sent a jolt down her spine. She felt them glide through her hair with ease, and with it, the weight of her past began to fall away.
Thick, shiny strands slid off the top of her head, cascading down her shoulders and gathering in her lap like fallen petals. Another pass. Then another. The smooth hum of the clippers filled the room, rhythmic, steady, almost meditative.
She opened her eyes and glanced at the mirror. A wide strip of short-cropped hair now ran down the center of her scalp, no longer than a fingertip. The contrast between what was gone and what still remained made her gasp slightly. But there was no fear. Just awe.
She met her own eyes in the mirror. There was something electric in them—a mixture of shock, freedom, and exhilaration.
The barber continued working methodically, moving to the sides, lifting her ear gently as he guided the clippers around the curves of her head. Her thick, beautiful hair—the one she had been known for—fell without resistance.
It was happening.
She was becoming the version of herself she had only dared to imagine.
As the barber continued shearing Mythili ’s thick hair, the sensation of each snip and buzz was a mix of vibrations and weightlessness. Lock after lock fell onto the floor, and with each strand that dropped, she felt an intense sense of release. The weight that had once been so familiar to her—her long, cascading hair—was slowly, methodically being reduced to almost nothing. Her scalp tingled, almost like a pulse, as the clipper’s sharp hum vibrated against her head.
She could feel the clippers glide smoothly across her scalp, carving a new version of herself. The barber moved to the sides of her head, and she could see, in the mirror, her once full, voluminous hair quickly shrinking down, revealing the delicate curve of her skull beneath. It was an unfamiliar feeling—exhilarating and freeing, as though she was being reborn.
Then the barber reached for a smaller attachment, a #2, and began buzzing her nape. The buzz was deep, precise, and Mythili couldn’t help but watch as it exposed the soft, pale skin of her nape, revealing a smoothness she’d never seen before. The buzzcuts at the back and sides were now in perfect contrast to the thick locks still on top, and she felt an odd sense of satisfaction in the contrast.
“Can you use this length all over?” she asked, voice steady but with a hint of anticipation.
The barber raised an eyebrow, his hands still steady. “This is a #5 attachment, so it’ll make it much shorter than a buzzcut, just about 5mm all over.” He glanced at her in the mirror. “You sure about that?”
She nodded, a smile playing on her lips. “Yes, I want to reduce the volume. From 2 inches down to 5mm. All over.” The words felt so final, so liberating.
The barber didn’t hesitate. He switched the attachment, his fingers clicking it into place, and gently placed the clippers back onto her scalp, right at the center. With one smooth motion, he began to shear.
Vrrrroooom—the clippers ran down the middle of her scalp, leaving a clean, almost white line in the center. She could see the path it carved in the mirror, like a new highway—a smooth road with no hair, only a soft stubble left behind.
Her heart raced. There was something intoxicating about watching the clippers at work. The sensation of the vibration, the rhythmic motion of the trimmer, and the smooth buzz as it stripped away the last of her length made her feel like she was shedding an old skin, one she no longer needed.
With each pass, her thick hair fell in soft, uneven patches—a stark contrast to the quiet precision of the clippers. She could feel the buzz vibrating against her scalp, and with every movement, it felt more and more like she was in complete control.
The barber continued, moving around her head, methodically shearing the remaining hair to 5mm. It felt like a slow transformation, one she could feel both inside and out. The clipper’s touch was constant, like a soft hum, vibrating gently as he worked on her nape and the back of her head. Her scalp tingled under the pressure, and she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sensations wash over her.
Short hair continued to fall, gathering in soft, uneven piles on her lap and the floor around her. Her scalp, now exposed, felt sensitive to the touch of the clippers. The act of the shearing, of losing her hair, seemed to amplify her feelings. The freedom of it felt thrilling, almost like a quiet rebellion.
The barber finished the final touches around her nape and the sides of her head. He carefully cleaned up the edges, ensuring a precise, even cut. As he stepped back, he dusted off her neck and shoulders, brushing away any loose hair.
Mythili looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her face, now framed by a soft stubble, looked so much sharper, more defined. Her scalp glowed under the salon lights, a smooth canvas, and she couldn’t help but trace the curves of her head with her fingers.
Mythili ’s heart raced as she looked at her reflection, her short stubble-covered scalp still feeling new, but her desire to go even further, to shed every last trace of her past appearance, tugged at her. She turned to the barber, her voice barely above a whisper, but with a sense of boldness that she hadn’t known she possessed.
“Can you go shorter? Can you make it zero?”
The barber met her gaze in the mirror. His eyes softened with understanding, almost as if he’d anticipated this moment. He smiled warmly, his hands steady. Without a word, he carefully removed the attachment from the clippers and replaced it with a bare blade, a zero trimmer. The sharp, metallic sound of the blade sent a thrill through Mythili , and she braced herself, both nervous and excited.
The barber placed the clippers at the center of her scalp, right where he had last buzzed her. With a soft hum, the trimmer began its journey across her skin, and the sensation was unlike anything she had felt before. The cold steel against her scalp, the way the clippers moved almost effortlessly, made her skin tingle, each pass leaving a smooth, clean surface behind.
As the clippers moved over her head, Mythili could feel the vibration of the blade against her scalp, the gentle hum of the clippers as they glided over her skin, shaving away every last bit of hair. The sound was sharp, like a soft scrape against her skin, and it was almost meditative as the clippers moved over her scalp, reducing the remaining stubble to nothing.
She watched, entranced, as her thick hair was gradually replaced by smooth, gleaming skin. The contrast between the sharp, dark lines of her scalp and the softness of the exposed skin filled her with an overwhelming sense of freedom. Every buzz of the trimmer seemed to strip away not just her hair, but some old version of herself, until only the barest essence of her remained.
When the barber finished, he took a step back and dusted off the last bits of hair from her neck and ears, his gaze never leaving her. Mythili sat there, completely still, her scalp now fully exposed, smooth and shiny. She reached up, running her fingers over the soft, bald surface. The feeling was surprisingly tender—a mix of vulnerability and empowerment. She felt the cool air against her scalp, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel weighed down by anything.
The barber’s voice broke the silence, a soft question that made Mythili ’s heart race once more.
“Can I use a razor?” he asked, his tone respectful, yet filled with a sense of anticipation.
Mythili ’s lips curved into a subtle smile, a mix of excitement and relief. She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper, but clear with her intent. “Yes, please.”
The barber nodded back, and with expert hands, he sprayed cool water over her scalp, the mist settling into her skin like a gentle touch. He began massaging her scalp slowly, the sensation almost soothing, making her feel both calm and exhilarated. The barber’s fingers moved with precision, working the water into her skin, preparing it for the razor’s touch.
As he massaged, he spoke again, his tone thoughtful, almost conversational. “You could have told me to go all the way to zero earlier,” he said. “But I understand wanting to see how it feels with short hair first. Everyone’s got their own journey, huh?”
Mythili smiled faintly, her eyes closed for a moment, relishing the sensation of his hands against her scalp. She had always imagined what it would be like to be completely bald, but now that she was here, it felt right. It felt like the start of something new.
“I wanted to see how I’d look with short hair first,” she replied softly. “It’s been a part of me for so long… but I needed to know if I could really do this.”
The barber nodded in understanding, his hands now steady as he reached for the razor. With a practiced motion, he began at the front of her head, slowly shaving her scalp from the hairline down to the center. The sound of the razor gliding across her skin sent a shiver through her. It was different from the clippers—sharper, closer, the feeling of the blade pulling the last traces of hair away from her scalp with each careful pass.
Mythili watched the smooth, shiny surface of her scalp emerge, the razor cutting through the water-slicked skin, leaving no traces of hair behind. The barber repeated the motion, shaving over the same spot 3 or 4 times, making sure the skin was perfectly smooth, until it felt like the very surface of her skull was bare and exposed.
Next, he moved to the sides of her head. The razor blade, now moving with practiced speed, slid across her scalp with precision, removing the last bit of hair from the curves of her head. Mythili could feel the smoothness taking shape as the razor glided along her ears and jawline, the sensation almost hypnotic, as if the weight of her old self was being peeled away, layer by layer.
Finally, the barber moved to the back of her head, starting from the center and moving out to the sides. The blade pressed against her skin once more, following the contours of her skull, until the last remnants of her hair had disappeared completely. He worked slowly and carefully, making sure her scalp was flawless.
He gently rested her head back against the chair, the cool leather surface cradling her as her hair cascaded in soft waves around her face. The gentle hiss of the spray bottle filled the air as he misted water over her face, the droplets gliding down her skin like tiny pearls. The coolness of the water was refreshing, a soothing touch after the warmth of the room.
With a delicate motion, he turned her head to the left, his fingers brushing her soft skin as he held her right chin. The razor blade gleamed under the light, its edge sharp and precise as he started to shave her cheek. His movements were slow and deliberate, carving away the fine stubble along her jawline, the soft rasp of the blade making her skin tingle. He shifted her face to the right, repeating the motion, each stroke so gentle, it almost felt like a caress.
As he moved down her neck, his touch became more focused, the blade gliding over the delicate skin of her throat. She felt a wave of relaxation wash over her, the rhythmic motion of his hand like a quiet promise of care. With a steady hand, he shaved upwards again on her cheeks, the blade now moving with a fluid motion, smoothing every curve, every line.
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin as he gently pulled her right cheek taut, the blade gliding over her upper lip. The area was sensitive, but she hardly noticed, lost in the sensation of his steady presence, the softness of his touch. The razor moved with precision, clearing away the small fuzz that had gathered. His fingers lingered on her face, rubbing gently to check his work, a small smile of satisfaction crossing his lips as he felt the smoothness he had created.
Then, he shifted his focus to her forehead, his hands carefully lifting the cape around her neck, revealing the soft contours of her face. He ran the razor slowly across her forehead, the blade skimming her skin in a tender, almost reverential way.
He stood behind her now, lifting her slightly, his hands firm yet gentle as he ran the razor over her scalp. The soft rasp of the blade against her skin was the only sound in the room, each stroke deliberate, making sure no stray hairs remained. The quiet hum of the razor filled the air as he worked, his movements fluid and patient, ensuring every inch of her head was perfectly smooth.
Finally, he removed the cape, his hands brushing across her neck as he bent her head forward, running the razor down her nape and along her back. The last remnants of her hair were gone, leaving her skin gleaming and pristine, a perfect canvas. He stepped back, admiring the smooth, shiny finish. The transformation was complete.
Mythili sat there, her head now completely bald, the smoothness of her skin gleaming under the light like porcelain. She had always dreamed of feeling the sensation of a completely shaven head, the soft, cool touch of her own skin beneath her fingertips. With trembling hands, she gently placed them on her freshly shaved scalp. The sensation was foreign yet comforting, a deep sense of relief and satisfaction flooding over her. As her fingers glided over the smooth surface, she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. She had never felt more connected to herself, more beautiful in this vulnerability.
Her reflection in the mirror showed a side of her she had never seen before—striking, confident, and undeniably captivating. She smiled, her lips curving as she continued to rub her scalp, her fingertips tracing the smoothness of every inch. The sensation was intoxicating. The tears in her eyes weren’t of sadness, but of joy, of a new beginning, a new chapter.
Stepping out into the cool breeze, the air kissed her bare skin, sending a shiver of delight down her spine. It was refreshing, liberating. She breathed deeply, feeling the freedom in every gust of wind that touched her bare scalp.
The barber stood behind her, his eyes scanning her head with a meticulous gaze. He nodded, checking his work once more. She felt his presence behind her as he took the razor in his hand and gently ran it over the top of her head three or four times, ensuring every last bit of hair was gone. The soft rasp of the blade was the only sound in the quiet room. He carefully rubbed his fingers over her scalp afterward, feeling for any remaining stubble, but it was smooth, flawless.
He then turned her back around to face the mirror, running the razor down the back of her neck again, the precision of his movements showing his expertise. The blade skimmed over her skin, leaving no trace of hair behind. After that, he moved to her cheeks, carefully shaving both sides once again, his hands steady and sure as he guided the blade.
She looked into the mirror, her eyes meeting his reflection, and asked softly, “Is there anything left?”
The barber smiled, his expression warm and satisfied. “Perfect,” he said, his voice filled with quiet admiration.
Mythili smiled, a sense of peace settling over her. She reached into her bag and handed him the payment, her fingers brushing his as she did. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady but filled with gratitude. He nodded in acknowledgment, and she left the salon feeling lighter, more empowered, ready to embrace the world with a fresh start.
As Mythili walked along the road, her head hidden beneath the hoodie, her hands were tucked inside, almost instinctively drawn to the smoothness of her freshly shaved scalp. Her fingers brushed against the bare skin, and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. It was an entirely new sensation, one she had never experienced before. The coolness, the slickness—it was in stark contrast to the soft strands of hair she had once known, and yet, there was something intoxicating about it. Each delicate stroke of her fingertips across her scalp made her breath catch in her throat, the sensation so powerful, so real, that she could hardly contain it.
She couldn’t stop touching it. Every touch, every caress, sent a ripple of excitement through her body. It wasn’t just the physical sensation; it was something deeper, something almost spiritual. The weight of her hair, the burden of it, was gone. She felt entirely unburdened, completely exposed, as if the world was now closer to her in this new form. The air against her skin, the openness she now carried—she had never felt more herself. It wasn’t just about the lack of hair; it was about shedding the old layers of her identity, feeling like she had left behind something unnecessary.
Her mind wandered back to the moment the barber had finished shaving her head, the careful precision with which he had run the razor over her scalp. She remembered the final touches, how the razor had glided smoothly, almost reverentially, over her head. It felt like a rite of passage, each stroke of the razor a step into something new. She had closed her eyes, surrendering to the sensation of being completely vulnerable, and yet completely free.
The soft, baby-like smoothness of her face, the precision with which he had shaved it, lingered in her memory. Her skin had felt impossibly soft, every inch of her face now as bare and clean as the scalp beneath her fingertips. The final razor run across her head had sealed the transformation, leaving her with an almost euphoric sense of completion. The way his cold hands had rested on her head, checking for any imperfections, only added to the serenity that had settled within her.
Now, as her fingers continued to roam across her smooth scalp, she couldn’t help but marvel at the addictive quality of it. The coldness of it, the perfection, the smoothness—it was almost like touching something sacred. She had longed for this feeling, even before she had fully understood it. Each touch felt like an affirmation, like she was reaffirming her new identity with every gentle stroke. Her fingers traced the contours of her head, savoring the sensation of it, enjoying the quiet joy that came with this moment of self-transformation.
By the time Mythili reached the door of their house, her heart was pounding in her chest, each beat echoing the anticipation that was coursing through her. Her hands trembled slightly, the feeling of her freshly shaved scalp still so new, so raw. She had kept the hoodie on, the fabric hiding her bold transformation from view, and every step she took felt heavier as if the weight of her decision was pressing down on her. Sharda was already there, her eyes burning with curiosity, trying to catch a glimpse of what Mythili had done.
As Mythili stepped into the house, she felt a wave of nervous excitement wash over her. Without saying a word, she walked straight to her mom, her body tense with anticipation. She wrapped her arms around her mother, her heart racing, and felt the familiar comfort of her embrace.
Her mother pulled back, her smile playful but edged with curiosity. “So, how was the visit? What did you do, dear? I can’t wait to see!” Her voice was teasing, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that betrayed just how eager she was to see the results.
Mythili let out a nervous laugh, her breath shaky as she tried to steady herself. “Well, I went in wanting something short, just two inches above my scalp. But… when he did it, I didn’t like it. So, I told him to go shorter. A lot shorter.”
Her mother’s eyebrows shot up, the surprise in her face slowly turning to a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Shorter?” she repeated, a playful glint in her eyes. “How much shorter are we talking?”
Mythili took a deep breath, her nerves tingling in every corner of her body. Then, without another word, she slowly pulled the hood of her sweatshirt back, revealing her completely shaven head.
For a long, tense moment, the room was silent. Sharda gasped audibly, her eyes wide with shock. Her mother froze, staring at Mythili in stunned silence. Then, as if the silence were too much to bear, her mom burst into laughter, loud and joyful, her eyes twinkling with something like pride and disbelief.
She stepped forward, a mixture of emotions swirling in her gaze—surprise, admiration, and an almost overwhelming sense of love. She placed her hands gently on Mythili ’s head, running her fingers over the smooth, shiny scalp as though she were touching something precious, something fragile.
“You look… absolutely stunning,” her mother finally whispered, her voice soft but filled with awe. “I can’t even… wow. You look so… powerful, so beautiful. I didn’t expect this at all, but it’s perfect.”
Sharda stood there, wide-eyed, unable to take her gaze off Mythili . “I can’t believe you did it!” she exclaimed, her voice a mix of awe and amazement. “You look incredible, like a completely different person.”
Sharda looked down at her daughter, her heart swelling with love. The moment felt suspended in time, as if the world outside had vanished, leaving only this sacred exchange between mother and daughter. She smiled softly, her hands lingering on Mythili ’s smooth scalp, still in awe of how different her daughter looked, yet how incredibly beautiful she was in this new form.
“You know, I never thought I would see you like this,” Sharda said, her voice full of tenderness. “But I love it. I love this new you. It feels… right. Like you’ve really found yourself.”
Mythili ’s eyes glistened with emotion. She hadn’t expected such unconditional acceptance from her mother. She thought she might have to explain herself or defend her decision, but Sharda’s warmth and admiration made everything feel perfect.
“I’m going to keep it like this for a while,” Mythili said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “I want to see how it feels, to really live with it and embrace it.”
Sharda’s smile widened, her heart full of pride. Without a second thought, she leaned down and kissed the top of Mythili ’s freshly shaven head, the softness of her lips lingering for a moment longer than usual, a symbol of her deep affection. “Sure, dear. I think you look beautiful. I’m so proud of you for embracing it.”
As Sharda pulled back, she continued to run her fingers over Mythili ’s scalp, the smoothness beneath her touch almost addicting. Her fingers traced the delicate curves of her daughter’s head, exploring every inch of the exposed skin as if it held secrets she hadn’t yet discovered. She marveled at the feeling, how something so simple could make her feel so deeply connected to Mythili .
Mythili , feeling both relaxed and vulnerable in the moment, leaned back and rested her head gently on her mother’s lap. She closed her eyes, the sensation of her mother’s hands on her scalp soothing and calming her. There was something so comforting about the way Sharda touched her, as if she was not only caressing her head but also reaffirming her place in the world.
“I’ve always loved running my hands through your hair when you were younger,” Sharda said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that made Mythili ’s heart flutter. “But now, touching your smooth scalp… it’s different. It’s like I’m discovering a new side of you, a side that’s always been there, waiting to shine.”
Mythili let out a contented sigh, her body relaxing further into her mother’s lap. “It feels amazing, Mom. I didn’t think it would, but now… I can’t stop touching it. It’s like a whole new feeling, a new freedom.”
Sharda’s fingers continued their slow, loving exploration of Mythili ’s bald head, each touch deliberate, as if she were memorizing every curve. “It’s soft,” Sharda murmured, “and it’s beautiful. I can’t explain it, but it feels like I’m not just touching your head. I’m touching a part of your soul.”
Mythili smiled, the warmth of her mother’s words enveloping her like a blanket. “I’m glad you like it, Mom. I feel like I’m truly seen right now, like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”
Sharda’s hand came to rest on Mythili ’s head, her palm flat against her smooth skin. “You’ve always been exactly where you need to be,” she whispered, her voice filled with love. “And now, this head, this beautiful bald head of yours… it’s just another part of you that I love even more.”
Mythili closed her eyes again, feeling the love and affection in every touch, in every word spoken. In this moment, she realized that the bald head she had once thought might set her apart had instead brought her closer to the people she loved most, especially her mother.
Mythili ’s fingers continued to glide over her smooth scalp, the sensation almost intoxicating. It was like she couldn’t get enough of the feeling, as if each touch reaffirmed her decision, grounding her in the moment. She looked up at her mother, a playful glint in her eyes, and a thought suddenly crossed her mind.
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like, Mom?” Mythili asked, her voice light but with a hint of curiosity. “What if you shaved your head too?”
Sharda paused for a moment, clearly taken by surprise, before a smile spread across her face. She chuckled softly, a warmth in her voice. “Why not someday?” she replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe it would be fun to try it. You never know!”
Mythili raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the idea. “You really think you could pull it off?” she teased, imagining her mother with a bald head. “I bet you’d look amazing.”
Sharda reached out and gently tapped the top of Mythili ’s freshly shaved head, a soft, affectionate gesture. “Now, your bald head is enough for both of us,” she teased back, her voice playful yet full of love. “But maybe one day, I’ll give it a shot. Let me see how you enjoy this look first, and who knows, maybe I’ll follow in your footsteps.”
As she spoke, Sharda ran her fingers tenderly over Mythili ’s smooth scalp again, savoring the sensation as though it were her own head. “For now,” she added with a smile, “you’re my bald beauty, and I love every bit of it.”
Mythili smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her chest at her mother’s acceptance and playfulness. It was moments like this, with their laughter and shared connection, that made her feel truly at peace with her choice.
“Maybe one day, we’ll both have smooth heads,” Mythili joked, her voice light, feeling a sense of adventure in the idea of them both embracing the boldness together.
Sharda’s smile deepened, and she kissed the top of Mythili ’s bald head once more. “We’ll see, dear,” she said softly, her hands still gently caressing Mythili ’s scalp. “For now, I’m just happy to have you exactly as you are.”
As the evening wore on and the palace slowly descended into silence, Mythili slipped away to her room. She closed the door behind her gently, sealing herself in a cocoon of solitude. The world outside faded into a muffled hush, and for the first time that day, she was truly alone—with herself.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers unconsciously drifting toward her freshly shaven head. Unlike before, there were no curious stares, no hushed whispers, no company—only silence and the rhythmic beat of her own breath.
Her fingers brushed the smooth surface of her scalp, and she exhaled slowly. This time, it wasn’t about acceptance. It wasn’t about defiance or beauty or transformation. It was about belonging—to herself. The cool sensation beneath her fingertips sent a quiet thrill through her. Every curve, every inch of bare skin felt sacred, like rediscovering a part of her soul that had long been buried.
She closed her eyes and let her hands explore—the slickness, the softness, the delicate stubble just beginning to rise under her touch. The memory of the razor’s hum echoed in her mind, like a lullaby that awakened something deeper inside her. It was more than a feeling. It was fulfillment. The head she once imagined shaving in secret, in distant dreams, now lay beneath her fingertips—real, raw, and hers.
A smile curled at the corners of her lips.
She rose and stepped into the bathroom, letting warm water cascade over her head. The water flowed smoothly, dancing over her scalp, intensifying every sensation. She stood still, savoring the moment—the sound of droplets, the softness of skin, the liberation of every inch revealed. Under the water, with eyes closed, her hands found her head again. Rubbing, feeling, cherishing.
She had dreamed of this for years. Fantasized about the freedom, the boldness, the peace it would bring. And now, standing there, her fingers could not stop exploring. It was more than satisfaction—it was a kind of homecoming.
Every morning, Mythili stood before the mirror, the familiar hum of the razor in her hands. What had once been a bold act was now a soothing ritual—her own form of meditation. The cool blade glided across her scalp, leaving behind smooth, bare skin. She had grown to love this moment of stillness, this connection with herself. Each stroke was a reaffirmation of who she was becoming.
Her mother, Sharda, had not only accepted Mythili ’s transformation—she had embraced it wholeheartedly. Every morning, after Mythili finished shaving, Sharda would enter the room with a soft smile, wrap her arms around her daughter, and gently kiss the top of her freshly-shaved head. Her fingers would linger, tracing the contours with love and admiration.
“You look so beautiful, my dear,” she would whisper. “So brave, so you.”
And every time, Mythili ‘s heart would swell with warmth. That kiss wasn’t just affection—it was reassurance, grounding, and pride. It reminded her that she was seen, loved, and celebrated.
As the days passed, the once-radical act of going bald became an expression of freedom. Mythili didn’t just enjoy the smoothness—she craved it. The way her scalp felt after every shave, the way her skin shimmered under the light, the way hands—hers or others’—felt gliding across it. She no longer flinched when someone touched her head. She welcomed it. Whether it was Sharda’s gentle caress, a friend’s teasing rub, or a stranger’s curious pat, it didn’t matter. Each touch was a silent affirmation.
Her friends, initially stunned by her decision, had come around quickly. What began as shock turned into admiration and playful teasing. They rubbed her head like a lucky charm, giggling and making jokes.
“Mythili , your head’s so shiny, I can practically do my makeup in it!” Priya would laugh, tapping her with affection.
Mythili would laugh along, proud and unbothered. The bald head wasn’t just a look—it had become a part of her identity. Strong. Honest. Free.
One morning, something unexpected happened. Sharda, inspired by her daughter’s boldness and newfound peace, turned to Mythili as they sipped tea in the living room.
“I want to go to the same salon you did,” she said, her eyes steady. “I think… I want a boycut.”
Mythili ‘s eyebrows lifted in surprise—and then her face broke into the brightest smile. “Are you serious?”
Sharda nodded, a little nervously. “I want to feel that lightness too. Maybe not a full shave—not yet. But a new beginning.”
Together, they walked into the same salon where Mythili had first let go of her hair. The hairstylist, recognizing them both, smiled warmly.
” At the salon, Sharda sat in the chair a little nervously, draped in the black cape. The hairstylist tied her hair back one last time before lifting the scissors. Mythili stood close, her hand resting gently on her mother’s shoulder.
“You ready, Mom?” she asked softly.
Sharda took a deep breath, then nodded. “Let’s do it.”
The first snip echoed louder than expected, and with it, a thick lock of hair tumbled to the floor. One after another, the strands fell—her long, familiar hair giving way to something new, something bold. As the scissors worked their way around Sharda’s head, Mythili watched in awe. Her mother’s face began to emerge more clearly: high cheekbones, soft eyes, and a quiet strength that had always been there—but now shone even brighter.
Once the scissors had done their part, the stylist switched to the clippers, cleaning up the edges, shaping the boycut into something sleek and modern. The final result was striking. Sharda now had a neat, short boycut that hugged her head gracefully—tapered around the ears, cropped close at the back, with just a gentle layer of soft hair on top. It suited her face astonishingly well, highlighting her jawline and giving her an air of quiet elegance mixed with youthful boldness.
Mythili gasped. “Mom… you look amazing!”
Sharda turned to the mirror, blinking at her reflection. She reached up, running her fingers through the short, feathery hair. It felt strange… and yet, so right. Her face lit up with a smile that was almost childlike in its joy.
“I haven’t felt this light in decades,” she whispered, laughing. “It’s like I’ve let go of something heavy I didn’t even realize I was carrying.”
Back at home, the two stood side by side in front of the mirror. Sharda with her new, sharp boycut; Mythili with her perfectly smooth, shaved scalp. Together, they looked powerful—two women from different generations, walking the same path of courage and self-acceptance.
“Now you’ll need a morning routine too,” Mythili teased, ruffling the top of Sharda’s head playfully.
“Oh no,” Sharda laughed. “I think I’ll leave the daily shaving to you. This boycut is enough excitement for me!”
But secretly, she couldn’t stop touching her head. The soft fuzz, the ease, the freedom—it was addictive. She caught herself glancing at the mirror more than usual, smiling each time. Even at the temple that week, Sharda walked in proudly, her short hair uncovered, drawing curious but mostly admiring glances. Some aunties whispered. Others asked who had done the cut. But Sharda only smiled. She didn’t need to explain. She felt more herself than she had in years.
Every evening now, just like before, Sharda would walk up to Mythili , kiss her bald head gently, and then laugh when Mythili kissed her back on the crown of her boycut.
“You started something,” Sharda would say.
“And you continued it,” Mythili would reply, smiling.
Their journey was no longer just about hair. It was about breaking expectations—about letting go of old weights, about owning their identity. And in that small salon chair, with a simple boycut, Sharda had found her own version of freedom.
