The Crown Torn Away

Part 1 – The Unexpected Reunion

The summer sun hung high in the sky, washing the streets in golden light. It was one of those warm, drowsy afternoons when time seemed to stretch out, and everything moved a little slower. Rhea stepped into the salon, her 10-year-old son walking just behind her, tugging gently at her kurta. The light green fabric shimmered in the heat, clinging delicately to her frame. She had tied her hair up in a loose, massive bun at the back of her head—wet and slightly glistening from the bath she had taken earlier. Even in that coiled state, the bun looked impossibly thick and full.

Her jet black hair was the kind that drew attention in any room. When open, it cascaded down to her knees like a silk curtain, its rich color almost blue under direct light. The sheer volume and length of it made her presence regal, timeless, like a portrait from another era. But she had always worn it with simple grace—no fuss, no need to boast.
The coolness of the air-conditioned salon greeted her like a welcome breeze. She moved toward the counter to check for appointments when a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Rhea?”
Rhea turned sharply, blinking.
Standing just a few feet away was a woman with striking dark brown hair, open and voluminous, reaching just past her mid-back. It was thick, healthy, and glossy, falling in soft waves that framed her oval face. Rhea needed only a moment to recognize her.
“Anjali?” she whispered, her face lighting up in disbelief.
They embraced almost instantly, the kind of hug only childhood friends could give—full of time, memory, and warmth.
Anjali stepped back, her eyes scanning Rhea’s figure, lingering at her hair.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, smiling. “Still the same Rhea—with enough hair to start a forest.”
Rhea laughed, and it felt like the years melted away. “And you! Your hair’s shorter now… but it suits you.”
“It used to be a bit of a drama,” Anjali admitted, running her fingers through her open locks. “But yeah, I finally gave it the chop.”
Rhea looked at her, memories beginning to stir.
“Remember that day on the college bench?” Rhea asked with a soft laugh. “We had our hair in those ridiculous giant buns, trying to outdo each other on who could make theirs bigger?”
Anjali laughed out loud. “God, yes! You had yours high on your crown, and I went all out with a low chignon. People kept staring at us like we were a hair exhibit.”
A memory flashed clearly—two young women, seated on a quiet wooden bench under the shade of neem trees. The wind rustled gently, and their big, voluminous buns barely moved—they were that thick. Rhea’s jet black hair, freshly oiled and combed, gleamed under the sun. Anjali’s dark brown mane had a warm chestnut glow, her strands heavier and wavier. Both had wrapped their tresses into perfectly coiled shapes, and occasionally stray hairs would escape, brushing their cheeks as they laughed over silly college tales.
Back in the present, Rhea felt a tug on her kurta. Her son looked up curiously, sensing his mother was lost in a moment.
“Come,” Anjali said brightly. “You’ve got to tell me everything. And I want to see how you managed to keep all that hair so perfect after all these years.”
They moved toward the waiting area, the light catching the shine of Rhea’s damp bun. It was the kind of reunion that reminded you how some threads of the past never really fray — they simply stretch across time, waiting to be picked up again.

Part 2 – The Unspoken Weight of Hair

The salon hummed softly around them—low conversations, gentle laughter, the muted buzz of dryers. Rhea sat at one of the washing stations now, a plush cape draped over her shoulders. Her son had gone to explore a nearby bookstore, leaving the two women with some quiet.
Anjali stood beside her, smiling as she looked at Rhea’s reflection in the mirror. “You’ve never colored it? Not even once?”
Rhea shook her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Never needed to. It’s just… part of me.”
A young stylist approached and gently began unpinning Rhea’s bun. As the clips were removed, the wet coils loosened slowly, layer after layer tumbling down in glossy black waves. It was mesmerizing. Her hair, even damp, looked like pure silk—thick from root to tip, with a natural shine that shimmered under the salon lights.
As the stylist carefully parted her hair for a wash, Anjali stepped back to take it all in. “You know, people used to talk about your hair like it was a legend. I remember girls in college trying to oil and braid theirs like you.”
Rhea chuckled, leaning back into the basin. “It was just… what I was used to. Ma always believed a woman’s hair held her strength.”
Warm water began to flow through her strands. The stylist worked her fingers into Rhea’s scalp with a rhythmic grace, massaging and loosening the roots. Thick, wet tresses clung to the cape and the back of the chair, almost pooling by the base. Shampoo lathered into fine bubbles, filling the air with the scent of hibiscus and sandalwood. Conditioner followed, and the sheer weight of her wet hair seemed even heavier than usual.
Anjali watched, an amused glint in her eyes. “You know, most women feel lighter after a wash. But you—you look like your hair could tip the chair over.”
They both laughed.
Soon after, her hair was gently towel-dried, but still very damp. The stylist handed her a wide-tooth comb, but Rhea preferred her fingers, carefully smoothing her hair back as she gathered it into a neat, wet bun. This time, the bun sat low and firm, gleaming with moisture, every strand perfectly in place. The weight was unmistakable—like wearing a crown of memories and years.

As they stepped out of the salon into the humid summer air, Rhea caught a glimpse of herself in the glass window—light green kurta, glistening bun, a few drops of water trailing down her back. She looked composed, graceful… but her thoughts lingered.
At home, her son looked up at her curiously as she entered.
“Mumma,” he said, tugging at her hand, “why don’t you get your hair like Aunty Anjali’s? It looks fun. And short.”
Rhea paused, kneeling in front of him. She brushed her fingers through his short curls and smiled. “Maybe because I’ve had this hair longer than you’ve been alive.”
“But don’t you get tired of it?” he asked innocently. “It takes so long to dry. You always say it gets heavy.”
She looked at herself in the hallway mirror—at the glistening wet bun that sat like an anchor on her nape. It was true: her hair had always been a source of comfort, but also of weight. It never occurred to her to cut it. Even trimming felt like betrayal.
Yet something about today… about seeing Anjali again, about remembering the girl she once was—untouched by expectation, obligation, and years—planted a small thought somewhere deep.
She wasn’t going to cut it. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But for the first time in her life, she allowed herself to imagine it.

Part 3 – Braids, Buns, and a Shared History

A few weeks had passed since their unexpected reunion at the salon, and Rhea was now meeting Anjali again—this time in a cozy rooftop restaurant tucked above a busy market street. The weather was warm and breezy, and fairy lights flickered overhead as they settled into a quiet corner table.
Rhea wore a soft peach cotton kurta, and as always, her hair was neatly gathered into a massive, glistening bun at the back of her head. Even with its weight pinned up, it carried an aura—wet and regal, like a coiled black waterfall restrained by practiced grace.
Anjali, in contrast, wore her now shoulder-length dark brown hair open. The volume was still impressive—thick and wavy, the ends freshly trimmed. Her hair danced around her shoulders with ease and lightness.
“Happy early birthday,” Anjali said, handing over a small gift box with a grin.
Rhea laughed. “You always remember.”
They chatted over coffee and shared memories between bites of spicy chaat and gulab jamuns. As the evening wind grew stronger, Rhea touched her bun absentmindedly, the strands still faintly damp from the wash earlier that afternoon.
After dinner, Anjali suggested, “Why don’t we go to my place? I want to show you something. Also… I still owe your hair a few more styles.”

At Anjali’s Room – An Evening of Styles
Rhea settled on the floor while Anjali pulled out her haircare basket. With care and a hint of ceremony, Rhea began to untie her damp bun. The room filled with a soft, floral scent as her hair unfurled like silk—still wet, jet black, impossibly thick and lustrous. It draped over her shoulders, down her back, and pooled at her side like a shimmering black curtain.
“Goodness, you should charge for this experience,” Anjali teased. “Every time I see your hair, I feel like I’m in the presence of royalty.”
They both laughed.
Anjali combed her friend’s hair gently, starting from the ends and moving up. With the weight of water, Rhea’s hair seemed to gleam even more. Then she began to try different hairstyles, each one taking time and reverence.
First, a thick three-strand braid that extended almost to Rhea’s knees, tapering slightly at the ends. The braid lay heavy and symmetrical, the wetness giving it a silky shine.
Next, she coiled the braid into a traditional layered bun, pinning it securely low at the nape. It looked elegant, with the texture of the braid forming intricate spirals.
“Still heavy?” Anjali asked, pressing the bun lightly.
“Always,” Rhea smiled.
Then came a twisted bun, sleek and tightly wound, its mass doubled because of the water. Anjali added a decorative clip with a little pastel bow at the top—playful against the dignified weight of the bun. It looked nearly identical to the one Rhea had admired in the reference photo she once saved long ago.
They tried a few more styles—rope braid, crown twist, and a giant coiled ballerina bun, with Anjali giggling as she struggled to pin the enormous mass.
“You know,” she said while gently smoothing the last bun with a bit of serum, “I used to do this exact thing with my hair… until one day, I didn’t.”
Rhea turned toward her curiously. “You never told me how it happened. You had such beautiful hair—so long… almost as long as mine.”
Anjali sat back, her fingers pausing. A quiet moment passed before she began.

“It was almost two years ago,” Anjali began, her voice soft, gaze drifting toward the window. “Back then… my hair was nearly knee-length. Dark brown, thick, healthy—just like you remember. I used to keep it in a heavy braid, and every morning, I’d feel that weight slide down my back like a curtain.”
Rhea nodded, recalling vividly how Anjali’s braid would sometimes brush the bench they sat on during college days.
“I hadn’t cut it since I was a teenager,” Anjali continued. “It became a part of me, a ritual, a source of comfort. But… somewhere along the way, it started to feel like I was carrying my past around with me. Like I was trapped in time.”
She took a slow breath.
“That day, I walked into the salon for a hair wash. Just that. I hadn’t even thought of a cut. But when the stylist opened my braid and let all that hair fall—wet, glistening, and heavy—I looked in the mirror and suddenly asked her, ‘What if I cut it?’”
Rhea’s eyes widened. “You asked her?”
Anjali smiled faintly. “She was shocked. Said it would be a crime. That my braid was beautiful, rare. She tried to talk me out of it.”
“And you still did it?” Rhea asked, leaning in.
“I told her to do it before I changed my mind,” Anjali said quietly. “She asked one last time. I nodded. Then she tied a thick black rubber band at my mid-back. I remember hearing the metal snap of the scissors opening behind me.”
Rhea swallowed, her hand unconsciously grazing the top of her own bun.
“I kept my eyes closed as she cut. The sound… it was like slow tearing, not just hair but years of memories being snipped away. It took effort—the braid was so dense. But she cut above the band, and when it finally came off, my shoulders felt light—strangely free.”
“Did you cry?”
“A little. But I felt something else too—release. Like I’d shed a skin.”
Rhea sat in thoughtful silence, her fingers now resting gently on her own coiled bun. Hearing Anjali’s story made her reflect again on her own connection to her hair—a connection still unbroken.

Part 4: The Turning Point

The day of Rhea’s birthday arrived with a quiet golden morning, soft summer warmth filtering in through the gauzy curtains. She stood before the mirror, her thick, jet-black hair glistening in the sunlight, cascading in a massive, glossy bun that sat like a crown of coiled silk at the back of her head. A few dew-like droplets still clung to the strands near her nape from the gentle misting she had done to tame any frizz. Her hair, as always, radiated health and heritage—long, full, and beautiful, reaching her knees when untied.
Anjali arrived mid-morning, vibrant and cheerful, wearing a soft coral kurta, her shoulder-length dark brown hair left open, voluminous and shiny in loose waves. Her warm hug and teasing remarks quickly dissolved Rhea’s nerves. “Today, you’re the queen. And queens need to be pampered.”
They began their outing with shopping—lighthearted laughter, arms linked, exploring boutiques, and picking up trinkets and fabrics. Rhea’s heavy bun moved gracefully with each step, commanding admiring glances from strangers. Even tied up, it was an awe-inspiring sight, a symbol of patience and care, each coil wrapped thick with years of devotion.
After a long lunch in a cozy rooftop café, Anjali suggested a surprise visit. “Let’s go somewhere special.”
Rhea was hesitant. “Where?”
“You’ll see,” Anjali grinned.
Soon, they were standing in front of a sleek salon. Rhea’s brows furrowed. “A salon? Why?”
“Just trust me. Something small. You’ll feel refreshed.”
Inside, Rhea sat in a plush salon chair, draped in a light green cape that contrasted beautifully with her dusky skin and inky black hair. Her bun, slightly loosened from the day’s movements, looked regal yet soft. The stylist gently began unraveling it. As the coils came undone, a flood of damp, fragrant hair tumbled down her back—inky, thick, and impossibly long. The sight drew quiet awe from the staff. Her hair, still damp from a light spritz earlier, clung together in heavy, lustrous strands, swaying like a velvet curtain.

Anjali sat beside her and casually asked for a trim. Her dark brown hair, still thick and voluminous despite its shoulder length, was dusted by the stylist with a quick snip. “One inch off,” she smiled.
She turned to Rhea. “You should get a trim too. Nothing drastic. Just clean the ends. It’ll feel lighter.”
Rhea hesitated, glancing at her reflection. Her heart pounded. “I don’t know… It’s been so long.”
Anjali stood and began tying Rhea’s hair into a sleek, mid-back ponytail with a black rubber band. “Just the ends,” she repeated soothingly.
The stylist stepped behind her, scissors glinting under the salon lights. Rhea turned slightly. “Wait, not too much…”
But Anjali placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. Trust me.”
And then, before Rhea could say more, the stylist positioned the blades above the rubber band—just above her mid-back. Rhea’s eyes widened in shock, tears springing immediately to the surface. The thick tail of her lifelong companion hung for a moment, suspended in silence.
SNIP.
The sound echoed like a thunderclap.
A gasp escaped her lips. Her fingers trembled beneath the cape.
“Stop… Please,” she whispered, eyes glistening.
But the scissors moved again. The stylist ignored her cries, her pleas. Instead of ending the trim, she reached for clippers and gently lifted the thick curtain of hair at Rhea’s nape. With a swift motion, the clippers buzzed, shaving the nape clean. Rhea sobbed as the contrast of cold air met her bare skin.
“No… please stop… please…” she begged, voice cracking.
But the stylist continued.
Snip. Comb. Snip. Comb.
The scissors danced with mechanical rhythm now, cutting Rhea’s thick, soaking wet locks higher and higher. Her precious knee-length hair was falling around her like dark silk ribbons. With each cut, a part of her identity slipped to the floor.
The stylist worked with precision, tapering the length near her jawline. The mirror showed Rhea a face she barely recognized—tear-streaked, eyes wide, lips trembling, and her once-massive mane reduced to a chin-length bob. But it wasn’t over yet.
The stylist changed her grip and began sculpting more, removing any bulk, any sign of length. Bit by bit, the hair was cropped shorter and shorter until the final reveal: a neat, boyish cut that framed her face with unfamiliar severity.
Still crying, Rhea clutched the cape, pleading, “Stop, please, no more…”
But the stylist, now driven by some silent rhythm, picked up the clippers once more.
With calm hands, she tilted Rhea’s head forward.
The clippers buzzed to life.
Starting at the nape, the blades glided upwards in even strokes, shaving away the final remnants of Rhea’s thick, lush hair. The sensation sent a shock through Rhea’s spine. Hair that had once touched her knees now scattered in short tufts across the cape and floor.
The final passes left her scalp bare and vulnerable, smooth to the touch. Her crown, once wrapped in glory, now exposed, raw, and shining under the salon lights. Rhea sat frozen, shoulders trembling under the cape.
Around her, silence reigned—only broken by the soft rustle of fallen hair being swept away.

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