Sana Ali
NOTE PLEASE REAT PART 1 BEFORE READIND PART 2
The stylist continued her meticulous work, each *snip* of the scissors steady and precise. The room remained utterly silent, each woman holding her breath as Nadia’s hair, once long and flowing, steadily shortened with each careful cut. Her body felt stiff as she sat on the stool, her back straight, hands gripping the edge beneath the cape. She tried to remain composed, but silent tears streamed down her cheeks, synchronized with the rhythmic sound of the scissors cutting through her hair, strand by strand.
Nadia’s gaze slowly drifted across the room, her eyes pleading silently for some form of comfort. She tried to meet Amina’s eyes, seeking a sign of mercy, but Amina’s expression remained unyielding, her gaze fixed firmly on Nadia, as though enforcing her authority with each glance. Sana, kneeling nearby with the broom, watched helplessly, a look of compassion filling her own eyes. Though she wished she could offer comfort to Nadia, she knew it would go unnoticed—and any attempt to intervene would only invite reprimand.
Finally, the stylist made the last snip, the last of Nadia’s long strands falling to the ground. Just then, a soft whimper arose from Naima, who had started crying as her cousins Hafsa and Meher teased her in hushed whispers, taunting that Amina might have her head shaved next. As Naima’s cry grew louder, Amina’s face tightened, clearly irked by the disturbance. Her gaze sharpened as she addressed the room.
“Whoever’s supposed to keep the children in line,” she called out, her voice stern, “make sure Naima is quiet.”
Sana immediately moved, reaching for Naima to console her, gently whispering reassurances to calm her down. Meanwhile, the stylist stepped back, studying Nadia’s face as she thoughtfully tapped the scissors against her chin. Her gaze lingered on Nadia’s forehead, her expression revealing a flicker of dissatisfaction, as though something were missing from the look.
“Is everything all right?” Amina asked, noticing the stylist’s thoughtful silence.
The stylist didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head, a faint smile forming as she reached for her comb and expertly brought a section of Nadia’s remaining hair down over her forehead. “Just a final touch,” she murmured, parting the strands with precision and trimming them into a set of bangs that brushed just above Nadia’s eyebrows.
With one last adjustment, she stepped back, looking satisfied. “Now, this looks perfect.”
Amina moved closer to observe, her critical eye roaming over Nadia’s new, chin-length cut and the soft bangs framing her face. She studied Nadia from head to toe, as if assessing her with finality before nodding, a faint smile forming.
“Looks like you survived,” Amina remarked, addressing Nadia directly. “You escaped going any shorter.”
Nadia let out a shaky breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she realized the ordeal was finally over. She reached up instinctively, her fingers brushing against the unfamiliar length of her hair, feeling the soft ends at her chin and the light fringe over her forehead. Her eyes shimmered with lingering tears, but she swallowed, composing herself as she quietly murmured her thanks to Amina, who simply nodded in acknowledgment.
As Nadia stood up, adjusting her hijab to cover her freshly cut hair, Amina turned her gaze toward the group of women waiting. Each of them shifted uncomfortably, stealing glances at one another. Their unease was palpable, knowing they too would soon take the same seat Nadia had just vacated.
“Saima,” Amina called, her voice carrying authority that left no room for hesitation.
Saima’s face went pale. She glanced nervously at her sisters-in-law, then rose, her steps slow and hesitant. She reached the stool and removed her niqab and hijab, exposing hair that reached her mid-back, glossy and carefully kept. Saima took a deep breath as she sat down, hands trembling slightly as she awaited her turn, casting a quick, anxious glance back at her family.
The stylist prepared the cape again, flicking it open and draping it over Saima with precision, fastening it securely around her neck. Saima’s dark brown hair lay against the stark white fabric, contrasting against the cape as the stylist adjusted it, carefully combing through the length. Once more, she turned to Amina, waiting for her direction.
Amina studied Saima for a moment, her gaze narrowing as she assessed the appropriate length. “Take it to her shoulders,” Amina said decisively, nodding at the stylist. “That will do.”
The stylist acknowledged the instruction with a quick nod and began her work, misting Saima’s hair with water until it gleamed. Saima sat stiffly, her breaths shallow, each snip echoing in her ears as the stylist began cutting. Her hair, once long and cherished, fell steadily onto the cape and then to the floor in neat piles, each lock a reminder of her submission to Amina’s authority.
Sana, still kneeling on the floor, watched as Saima’s transformation took place. The quiet strength in Saima’s posture didn’t go unnoticed, and Sana felt a pang of sympathy, recognizing the silent bravery it took to submit without complaint. She shifted forward, ready with the broom in hand, prepared to gather the freshly cut hair as it accumulated around the stool.
With the last snip, Saima’s hair was now a blunt, even cut just above her shoulders. The stylist stepped back, admiring her work before reaching up to unfasten the cape. Saima lowered her gaze, her fingers grazing the unfamiliar, shorter length before she rose from the stool, gathering her hijab back over her head.
Without a word, Saima returned to the group, her eyes cast downward, but her expression was one of acceptance. Amina nodded approvingly as Saima took her place, then turned her attention back to the remaining women, each of whom waited in tense silence, knowing they too were next in line
Razia and Nadia exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions tight as they took in Saima’s final cut. Both had silently nursed a glimmer of hope that perhaps Amina would allow everyone the same shoulder-length reprieve Saima had received. Yet as they watched Saima quietly thank Amina and retake her place, the jealousy was unmistakable. Razia’s fingers instinctively reached for her newly shorn, chin-length hair, as she fought back the urge to speak out. The thought of protesting simmered within her, but she knew better; arguing with Amina would likely only lead to a harsher consequence for them both.
Nadia, still shaken from her own ordeal, felt her own resentment bubble up as she saw Saima’s calm smile. Her fingers toyed with the short, uneven fringe framing her face, a fresh reminder of the merciless cut she’d endured. She bit her lip, casting a sidelong glance at her mother-in-law, wary of expressing her frustration but feeling the sting of injustice deep down. Both women quickly smothered any hint of defiance, swallowing their resentment and accepting the hierarchy Amina enforced without a word.
Amina, however, was already moving on, unfazed by the reactions of her daughters-in-law. Her eyes scanned the seated group, resting on Zainab, who instinctively sat up a little straighter. Zainab was known for her strong-willed nature, always poised and confident, but even she would not dare to challenge Amina.
“Zainab, you’re next,” Amina commanded firmly, not a hint of leniency in her tone.
Zainab took a steadying breath, momentarily exchanging a look with Razia and Nadia before she rose gracefully from the group. As she approached the stool, Amina’s attention shifted sharply, her expression hardening as she noticed Sana still kneeling nearby with the broom untouched.
“Sana, have I not told you to clean up after each haircut?” Amina’s voice cut through the room, her tone laced with impatience.
Sana jolted, realizing with a sinking feeling that she had failed to complete her task in her daze of sadness. Embarrassed, she lowered her head, apologizing quickly. “I’m sorry, Ammi. I won’t forget again.”
Amina wasn’t satisfied with a mere apology. “This will help you remember,” she said sharply, gesturing to the floor. “Sit right here, under the stool. Let each hair that falls remind you of your duty.”
Sana’s cheeks flushed with fresh embarrassment, but she obeyed, kneeling down beneath the stool as Zainab took her place above. Zainab’s expression softened with a trace of sympathy as she watched Sana situate herself beneath her, but she turned her focus forward, prepared for whatever Amina would instruct.
The stylist, sensing Amina’s approval, draped the cape over Zainab with her usual efficiency, securing it around her neck as Zainab’s dark, thick braid cascaded down over the cape. After undoing the braid and combing it free, the stylist glanced back at Amina for her directive. Amina approached, placing a finger at the back of Zainab’s head, indicating a severe chin-length cut.
“Take it to here,” Amina instructed, her voice unyielding.
With a nod, the stylist began her work, carefully sectioning Zainab’s hair. Zainab’s steady, confident gaze flickered with a trace of sadness as her waist-length hair was combed out, ready to be sacrificed to Amina’s wishes. She sat poised and still, the weight of each cut falling onto her shoulders as her thick hair was severed and slid down to the floor, some strands landing softly over Sana’s lap as she knelt in place below.
Sana’s eyes misted over as she watched each long lock descend, the growing pile around her a haunting preview of what was to come for herself. The gravity of her position and Amina’s words pressed upon her with every falling strand, driving home the inevitability of her own turn on the stool.
The stylist resumed with careful precision, turning Zainab’s half-damp hair into a sculpted, chin-grazing cut. She misted Zainab’s hair once more, the cold spray making Zainab shiver slightly as she glanced down at the dense pile of her own hair resting in her lap. The stylist’s scissors worked with a practiced rhythm, snipping away each carefully sectioned lock.
“Right or left?” the stylist asked, glancing at Amina, who looked back at Zainab with a questioning lift of her eyebrow.
Zainab’s mouth felt dry, her heart pounding as she forced out, “Right,” hoping the change would add some character to the drastic new look.
Amina nodded approvingly, and the stylist adjusted her approach, running a comb through Zainab’s hair with deft hands before tilting Zainab’s head down to expose the nape. Using a comb and scissors, the stylist methodically shortened the hair at the back, meticulously blending it to a neat taper that followed the shape of her head. Zainab held still, feeling the cool air reach her nape as the once-heavy weight of her hair diminished with each pass of the scissors.
The stylist eventually lifted Zainab’s chin and made the final adjustments, trimming the front strands with small, precise snips to bring them to just above her lips. She gently combed the top, parting it to the right as Zainab had requested, leaving a soft wave to frame her face. Zainab could only watch as the stylist’s hands crafted her new, striking look—a sharp contrast to the soft waves that had once flowed down her back.
Satisfied, the stylist stepped back, unfastened the cape, and let the cut hair slide down into the growing pile around Sana, who was kneeling dutifully under the stool, quietly sweeping with her gaze downward. Amina looked at Zainab, studying her for a moment before a slight nod of approval broke her stern expression.
“You may join the others,” Amina said, her voice firm yet approving.
Zainab took a deep breath, running her fingers briefly over the unfamiliar short layers framing her face. She gave a respectful nod to her mother-in-law, then returned to sit with the others, who glanced at her new look with varying expressions of surprise and admiration. As she took her place, her fingers rested lightly on her lap, her once-confident demeanor now tempered with the awareness of her changed appearance.
Amina called out, “Bushra, it’s your turn!”
Bushra sprang from her spot, her lively energy lighting up the room. “Let’s get this over with!” she said, practically bouncing over to the stool. She settled in, quickly removing her niqab and hijab, allowing her naturally wavy hair to spill past her waist.
The stylist approached, draping the crisp white cape over Bushra’s shoulders. “So, Ammi,” Bushra said playfully, “what’s the plan? How short am I going today?”
Amina exchanged a glance with the stylist, and they began discussing options. After a brief moment of consideration, Amina turned back to Bushra. “I think we’ll go for a chin-length bob with some layers,” she declared firmly.
Bushra’s eyes widened with excitement. “Chin-length? Perfect! I can totally rock that!”
The stylist nodded, preparing to begin. As she gathered Bushra’s hair and prepared her tools, Amina added, “Just remember, this is for your own good. You’ll look beautiful with this new cut.”
Bushra flashed a confident smile, her spirit undeterred. “Let’s do it, then!” she exclaimed, ready to embrace the change, even as a hint of nervousness danced in her eyes.
As the stylist began to spray Bushra’s hair, she immediately broke into a series of funny faces, wiggling her eyebrows and puffing her cheeks out. The children, who had been watching with wide eyes, erupted into giggles at her antics. Bushra leaned toward them, her playful spirit shining through even in this tense moment.
“See, this is just a fancy salon visit!” she announced, her voice light. “I’m just here for a glam makeover!”
The stylist chuckled softly, appreciating Bushra’s ability to keep the mood upbeat. As she started to comb through the damp hair, Bushra continued her chatter, asking playful questions. “So, do you think my hair will still look good when I turn into a rock star?” she teased, directing her attention toward the stylist. “Maybe I should get a pink highlight right here!” She pointed dramatically to a strand at the front of her hair.
The stylist glanced up at Amina, unsure how to respond to the cheeky request. But Amina, with her usual stern demeanor, simply shook her head and replied, “Just ignore her; she’s talking nonsense.”
Bushra, undeterred, turned back to the stylist, maintaining her cheerful facade. “Aw, come on! A single pink strand would make me look fabulous! I could start a new trend!” she insisted, giggling at her own silliness.
“Only if you promise to perform at our family events!” the stylist quipped back, rolling her eyes playfully. The room filled with soft laughter, the sound offering a momentary reprieve from the underlying tension as the other women smiled at Bushra’s antics.
Bushra continued her banter, asking absurd questions about hairstyles and making jokes about how she could use her new look to start a fashion revolution within the family. “What if I become the trendsetter? Everyone will be begging for pink highlights after they see me!”
The stylist, while focused on her work, couldn’t help but chuckle at Bushra’s relentless positivity, which seemed to lift the spirits of everyone in the room. Even Amina’s lips twitched slightly as she watched her daughter-in-law make the best of the situation.
Razia couldn’t help but smile beneath her veils, her eyes shining with gratitude as she nodded a silent thank you to Bushra. The playful atmosphere that Bushra created lightened the mood in the room, and even Sana, sitting resignedly under the stool as a reminder of her task, felt a sense of relief from the laughter.
As the stylist finished the cut, Amina stepped forward to inspect the work. After a moment of examination, she nodded in approval, satisfied with the transformation. Bushra, still in her playful spirit, jumped up from the stool and began to comically flaunt her new chin-length hair, flipping it side to side and striking exaggerated poses as if she were on a runway. The room erupted in soft laughter, her antics infectious.
Feeling a sudden rush of shyness, Bushra quickly made her way over to Razia, who half-hugged her in a show of affection. “Thank you for making the mood light,” Razia whispered, her voice warm and sincere. The kids giggled, enjoying the camaraderie between the two women.
Bushra, still smiling but now feeling a bit bashful, fumbled with her niqab as she tied it. Her playful demeanor softened as she turned to Razia and whispered, “Bhabi!”
Razia gave her a knowing look, appreciating the bond they shared. “You did great, Bushra,” she replied softly, her tone filled with admiration. “You really lifted everyone’s spirits.”
As Bushra finished adjusting her niqab, the warmth of gratitude settled in her heart. Despite the circumstances, she was grateful for the moments of laughter they could share, even amidst the impending transformations that lay ahead.
As Amina called Khadija’s name, Khadija quietly rose, casting her eyes down as she made her way to the stool. Always known for her gentle, obedient nature, Khadija approached without hesitation, her loyalty to the family clear in her every step. She took her place on the stool, and though the stool’s legs groaned slightly under her weight, she sat with poise, her hands folded respectfully in her lap beneath the cape the stylist had draped over her.
Khadija’s chestnut-colored hair, long and straight, fell to her lower back—a softer, more subdued beauty compared to some of the more striking hair in the room. As the stylist lifted sections to comb through, Khadija remained still, her eyes fixed modestly downward, resigned to whatever decision her mother-in-law would make.
Amina regarded Khadija thoughtfully for a moment, then turned to the stylist with a subtle nod. “A pixie cut,” she said, her voice steady. “But with some volume on top, so it still looks girlish.”
A quiet murmur rippled through the room, but Khadija showed no reaction, not even a flicker of surprise. Her hands clenched briefly under the cape, but she kept her gaze lowered, her only response a small, obedient nod. She’d always accepted her place without question, and today was no different.
As the stylist began sectioning off her hair, Khadija closed her eyes, preparing herself as the comb and scissors went to work. Each snip echoed through the room, the soft chestnut strands falling, transforming her into a vision of quiet resilience under her mother-in-law’s watchful eye.
As the stylist continued to trim, each snip bringing Khadija’s hair shorter and closer to her scalp, Khadija’s eyes filled with tears she fought to hold back. She was determined to stay strong, knowing Amina’s warning: any protest or sign of weakness would mean an even shorter cut than assigned. Still, as her hair shrank to barely grazing her ears and nose, the relentless sound of the scissors seemed to echo louder and louder in her ears.
When the stylist lifted a section of her hair from the front and made a final, decisive cut, Khadija couldn’t help but watch as a thick clump of hair fell, landing on her lap. A soft, choked sob escaped her lips, betraying her efforts to keep silent. Amina’s stern voice cut through the air, sharp as the scissors. “Do you want to go shorter?”
Khadija’s heart sank, and in a voice barely above a whisper, she managed, “No, Ammi.”
“Then stop crying,” Amina commanded, her voice unyielding.
Swallowing her tears, Khadija pressed her lips tightly together, determined not to let another sound escape as the stylist continued. The scissors snipped rhythmically around her, each cut shorter than the last, her soft chestnut strands falling one after another. Finally, with a last flick of her comb and scissors, the stylist stepped back, the haircut complete.
Amina circled around Khadija, who sat caped and obedient, she inspected every angle, taking in the result with a keen, critical eye. “The nape isn’t looking very clean,” she observed, her tone leaving no room for objection. The stylist nodded, assuring her, “I’ll take care of that,” before inviting Amina to inspect more closely and suggest any other changes she might want.
Khadija sat motionless, feeling almost as though she were on display, trying her best to hold steady under Amina’s watchful gaze. Beneath her, the stool strained quietly, the faint creaks adding a strange tension to the silence. From her place below, Sana could hear the faint crunching sound of the stool’s joints bearing Khadija’s weight. Finally, after a full circle, Amina nodded approvingly. “Looks fine,” she declared, signaling the stylist to proceed.
With practiced ease, the stylist reached into her box and retrieved a small tool, one unfamiliar to everyone in the room. Intrigued, Amina asked, “What is that?”
“This?” the stylist replied, holding it up for a brief moment. “It’s a straight razor. Used for cleaning up the nape and giving a sharp finish.”
Sensing no objection, she loosened the cape from around Khadija’s neck, allowing it to settle on her shoulders but keeping her fully covered. She gently pressed down on Khadija’s head. “Don’t move,” she instructed, her voice calm but firm.
Khadija swallowed hard, feeling the cool steel as the razor touched her skin. With each stroke, the stylist expertly cleared away the small hairs along her nape, leaving a precise, clean line that contrasted sharply against her shorter cut. She worked methodically, drawing the razor with care until the nape was sharp, smooth, and pristine.
I see, it seems like you’re looking to emphasize the dynamic of punishment and control more sharply, focusing on Amina’s decision to make Sana serve as the “stool” for the remaining haircuts. Let’s adjust to keep the emotional tension high and more closely align with the punishment and obedience theme you’ve been aiming for.
After the stylist finished, Amina nodded in approval and removed the cape from Khadija’s shoulders. Just as Khadija began to rise, the stool beneath her cracked, buckling from her weight. She stumbled forward, regaining her balance, but the loud snap echoed in the silent room.
Amina’s jaw tightened with restrained anger as her eyes darted to Khadija. But, knowing her daughter-in-law’s recent pregnancy was the cause of her weight gain, Amina held back. Instead, her gaze shifted sharply to Sana, who was quietly sweeping nearby.
“Sana!” Amina’s voice cracked through the room like a whip. Sana’s heart pounded, her face flushing under her niqab as she turned toward her mother-in-law.
“Do you even think before you act?” Amina’s voice dripped with disappointment. “I told you to set a sturdy stool, but you couldn’t even manage that! Are you that careless?”
The berating continued as Amina scolded Sana for her “thoughtlessness.” Each word landed like a blow, and Sana could feel her shame building. Then, with a final, cold tone, Amina took Sana’s arm and led her to the center of the room where the stool had once been.
“If you want to act like a donkey, then you’ll serve as one,” Amina declared sharply. She pressed down on Sana’s shoulder, forcing her onto her hands and knees in the very spot where the stool had been.
Without waiting for a response, Amina looked to Meher, her ten-year-old granddaughter, who sat watching in stunned silence. “Meher, come here,” she commanded.
Meher hesitated, her calm exterior cracking as she looked uncertainly between her grandmother and Sana, now kneeling as a human stool on the floor. But under Amina’s firm gaze, Meher silently obeyed, cautiously approaching and sitting on Sana’s back.
Sana braced herself as Meher’s weight settled, her hands trembling slightly from the emotional weight of her punishment. But she kept her head down, knowing that resisting or reacting would only worsen her position.
Amina folded her arms, her tone cold as she addressed Sana. “You will serve as the stool for the rest of the haircuts. Maybe this will teach you the importance of following instructions.” The rest of the family averted their gazes, and the room fell into an uncomfortable silence as Amina’s words lingered.
Turning to the stylist, Amina gestured toward Meher. “Cape her. She’s next,” she said with a nod. Meher, still looking uncertain, obeyed her grandmother’s instruction, allowing the stylist to wrap the cape around her.
As the stylist prepared to cut, Sana remained on her hands and knees, enduring her punishment in silence as Meher’s haircut began, the other family members watching tensely, aware of the lesson being taught but helpless to intervene.
