Legendary Head Shave Tales
In the elegant silence of a gated society in South Mumbai, Girija lived a life that had quietly dulled with routine. A 38-year-old homemaker with two children — Laila, 15, and Kishan, 12 — she was respected but hardly noticed. Her long, mid-back hair had been her quiet pride for years. But like the rest of her, it was always tied back, tucked away, forgotten.
One lazy afternoon, as she scrolled through her phone sipping chai, a reel caught her eye — a dramatic butterfly haircut transformation. The music, the confidence, the applause in the comments — something stirred. “Mujhe bhi kuch naya karna hai,” she murmured.
She booked an appointment. The stylist gently brushed her long hair, then asked, “Sure, madam?” She nodded. The scissors glided through her thick locks. As the soft layers fell into place, Girija saw a new version of herself. Elegant, lighter, confident.
That evening, at her society’s kitty party, compliments flew. “You’re glowing!” “Looks classy, Girija!” She blushed, brushing her fingers through the layered ends. Her daughter giggled, “Wow, Mumma… you look like someone from Insta!” She floated in the praise for days, taking selfies in natural light, her confidence glowing brighter.
A month passed, and the hunger returned. She wanted more of that attention, more of that applause. This time, she walked in and said, “Bob cut. Chin length.” The stylist smiled, snipping away her butterfly layers into a sleek long bob that hugged her jawline.
This time, people paused. “Bold choice,” someone murmured. Her husband Kishore stared when she returned home. “Yeh thoda zyada nahi?” he asked. But she just smiled and checked herself again in the mirror.
She began to walk with a sway, attend events with makeup on, and got invited to do an Instagram live by a local boutique. Comments poured in. Her followers doubled.
One month later, she couldn’t hold back. “Pixie cut, please. As short as possible.” The stylist hesitated. “It’ll change your look completely.” She smiled, “That’s the point.” As the clippers buzzed and scissors snipped, Girija felt each strand fall like weight she no longer needed. She looked at her reflection — sharp, confident, striking.
But the reactions were different. Her daughter frowned, “Mumma, it’s too much.” Her son giggled, “Mumma, you look like a boy!” Even Kishore sighed and said nothing. But the society’s younger women? They applauded her. “You’re fearless, Girija!” “Iconic!” She got invited to shoot a short reel for a brand campaign. The thrill returned.
She stared at her reflection for weeks, touching her short hair, staring at her scalp. Then, one morning, she walked back into the salon and said, “Shave it. Razor shave.” The stylist blinked, “Ma’am, sure?” Her eyes were steady. “Yes.”
The clippers hummed to life. The last of her pixie hair fell like feathers. Then came the razor, smooth and slow. The coolness of the blade, the vulnerability of each stroke. When it was done, Girija saw herself — completely bald. Her scalp shone under the salon lights. She looked… raw.
She walked out of the salon proud, but this time, the city wasn’t kind. The security guard stared, the neighbors whispered. At home, Kishore was stunned silent. Laila cried, “Why would you do this, Mumma? You’ve become a joke!”
Girija pretended to be unaffected, but the silence in her home screamed louder than ever. The next few weeks were isolating. No reels, no parties, no invitations. Her phone was silent. Her confidence cracked. In the mirror, her bald scalp was still visible, her once-proud smile fading.
But one night, as she sat under the terrace light, touching her smooth scalp, she whispered to herself, “Main apne liye jee rahi hoon. Sirf apne liye.” In her pursuit of validation, Girija had lost the applause, but perhaps, found something far deeper — herself.
