Legendary Head Shave Tales
Apoorva Gowda stepped into the office that Monday morning like she always did—elegant, calm, distant. Her presence was striking, partly because of the way she carried herself, but mostly because of her hair. Thick, jet black, and cascading all the way to her waist, her braid had become something of a silent symbol in the office. People noticed. People whispered. But she had grown used to it. What no one knew was that each strand of that hair held a memory, a promise, and a wound.
That morning, her steps halted in front of a colorful banner pinned outside the cafeteria. “Hair Donation Camp – 3 Days Only. Donate Hair, Donate Hope.” It was an initiative for cancer patients in collaboration with a local NGO. Bright smiles on posters. Pledges. Photos of bald children beaming. Apoorva’s breath hitched.
A colleague walked by and chuckled. “Ma’am, if someone like you donates, they’ll make a hundred wigs out of it!” She gave a polite smile and walked on, but her eyes lingered on that poster for a second longer. Inside her chest, something old and painful stirred.
That night, alone in her apartment, she pulled out an old shoebox from the back of her closet. Inside it, wrapped in faded tissue paper, was a tiny lock of hair. Her mother’s. The only thing she had left. Apoorva was ten when she watched her mother crumble under the weight of cancer. It started with the hair. One day, it began to fall. First strands, then bunches. Her mother tried to smile, tried to hide it. But Apoorva remembered the night she caught her weeping in front of the mirror, clutching the hairbrush like it had betrayed her.
“Amma… don’t cry,” little Apoorva had whispered back then, her voice trembling. “It’s okay, kanna. It’s just hair,” her mother had said, smiling with lips that couldn’t stop quivering. That image had burned itself into Apoorva’s soul. Since then, her own hair had become her armor—her tribute, her rebellion, her protection.
Day two in the office was louder. The hair donation booths had become a talking point. Many had already donated. Others were thinking about it. In the middle of the cafeteria, a woman survivor stood, sharing her journey. Her story was filled with scars, shame, and the struggle to accept her own reflection. “When my hair was gone, I couldn’t look at myself. I didn’t feel like a woman. But someone’s donation gave me back my face. My self-worth.” Apoorva listened from afar, eyes wet, fists clenched.
She left mid-way and locked herself in the restroom. Her friend Meghana followed. “You okay?” “No,” Apoorva said. “When Amma lost her hair, she lost everything. I swore I’d never cut mine. It was… the only promise I could keep.” “But don’t you see,” Meghana said gently, “maybe breaking that promise is what she’d want. For you to let go of that fear.” Apoorva said nothing. But that night, she dreamt of her mother, bald, smiling, and radiant—unburdened.
Day three. The final day of the camp. Most chairs were empty now, the scissors silent. Only one remained. One barber, quietly waiting. A little girl walked in, accompanied by an NGO volunteer. She was bald but glowing with mischief. She hugged every donor with glee and stopped in front of Apoorva.
“Your hair is like my doll’s. I gave my doll away to another girl in the hospital. Sharing makes things better, right?” she asked with a grin. Apoorva’s heart broke open. She stood up. The room quieted. Eyes turned. She walked slowly to the barber’s chair, as she sat down, The barber approached gently and asked. “How much do you want me to cut, ma’am?”
Apoorva looked up, her voice barely a whisper. “Everything…Completely no hair at all .” The barber paused for a breath, then nodded. He parted her thick hair into two heavy ponytails, tying each tightly with black rubber bands. The weight of her memories hung from both sides of her head.
With a buzz, the trimmer roared to life. Apoorva gripped the chair’s arms as the barber placed one hand on her crown and began. The first ponytail fell away in seconds, a heavy thud on the floor. The second followed, leaving her with uneven, jagged tufts. The barber unplugged the trimmer and reached for a towel. He gently wrapped it around her shoulders, then picked up a small brush and began lathering her scalp with warm, thick foam. Apoorva closed her eyes. The sensation was surreal—cool, soft, intimate.
Then came the blade. With calm precision, he placed the razor at the center of her crown and pulled it backward. A long stripe of bare skin appeared, pale and gleaming under the light. Another stroke. Then another. Foam mixed with fallen hair slid down her shoulders.
The sound of the razor slicing through the last traces of her identity was the only thing she could hear now. Each stroke was slow, deliberate, almost sacred. When he was done, the barber wiped her head clean. Apoorva opened her eyes and looked at her reflection. A smooth, shiny scalp stared back—bold, vulnerable, and reborn. She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile. She just… breathed.
On the streets, strangers turned to look, some with admiration, some with surprise, but Apoorva met every gaze without flinching. Her courage now lived where her hair once did. At home, her father stared for a long second before simply saying, “She would’ve been proud,” and walked away, misty-eyed.
The next morning, Apoorva walked into office with her head held high—bald, serene, unshaken. Conversations paused mid-sentence, eyes widened, and silence followed her like a shadow, but no one dared question her. Later that evening, she stood on the office balcony, letting the breeze graze her bare scalp. Her eyes were closed. For the first time in years, she felt light. Free. Not because she’d lost her hair—but because she had given something from the deepest part of her soul.
Her phone buzzed. A message from the NGO head: “We’re hosting another camp next month. This time in Hyderabad. Would you like to be our guest speaker?” Apoorva stared at the screen for a long moment. Then, with calm fingers, she typed: “Yes.” She looked up at the sky. Somewhere, she believed her mother was smiling.
