The Scissor’s Whisper. Part 3

The stylist opened the cape with a sweeping motion, letting the long fabric float down and settle over Meher, draping down to cover both Meher and Sana beneath. The weight of the cape pressed onto Sana’s back, cloaking her in darkness. She could only listen as the stylist adjusted the cape snugly around Meher’s neck, preparing for the cut.

From beneath the cape, Sana heard the faint sound of the spray bottle misting over Meher’s hair, followed by the rhythmic strokes of the stylist’s comb working through the now-damp strands. The room was silent but tense, the air thick with anticipation.

Once Meher’s hair was fully dampened, the stylist looked to Amina and asked in a calm, professional tone, “How would you like it cut?”

Amina’s response was firm, with no hesitation. “Cut all three children’s hair into a bowl cut, just above their ears. Shave the neck and back completely clean.”

A collective gasp swept through the room, the adults and children alike exchanging glances of shock. Meher’s lip trembled as she let out a small whimper. She turned her tear-filled gaze to her grandmother, pleading softly, “Dadi, please, not that short…”

But Amina only gave a gentle, reassuring smile, though her tone left no room for negotiation. “It’s necessary, Meher. This is what must be done.”

Sana, concealed beneath the cape, felt the weight of her own helplessness mingling with the quiet sounds of Meher’s distress. She could do nothing but brace herself as Meher accepted her fate with a silent, teary nod, the cape heavy above them both.

With a nod from Amina, the stylist picked up her comb and scissors, carefully combing Meher’s hair one last time before spreading it gently around her head, fully concealing her young face beneath a curtain of her own hair. Meher’s wide eyes filled with trepidation as she felt the cool steel of the scissors near her right ear. Then, with a soft snip, the first lock fell, and Meher’s quiet sniffles turned into soft sobs.

The stylist continued to work carefully, cutting in steady movements around Meher’s head, each cut creating a perfectly curved line. Just as she reached the bangs, Amina observed critically and gestured slightly higher, pointing to the midpoint of Meher’s forehead. “Higher,” Amina instructed, “right here.”

Nodding in understanding, the stylist adjusted and began to trim again, this time going even higher than before, forming a more dramatic, precise bowl shape. When it was time to cut the bangs, she gently told Meher to close her eyes. Though her cheeks were wet with tears, Meher obeyed, her eyelashes glistening as she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the snip of the scissors just above her brows.

Satisfied with the shape of the cut, the stylist set her scissors down and reached into her bag, pulling out a pair of chargeable clippers. Meher’s breathing hitched as the stylist placed a gentle yet firm hand on her head, tilting it forward and softly instructing, “Keep your head down, sweetheart.”

The buzzing sound of the clippers filled the room, and with her free hand, the stylist maintained a steady grip on Meher’s head, ensuring that she stayed perfectly still. As the clippers touched the nape of her neck, Meher felt the unfamiliar sensation of the vibrating blade as it swept up, removing every remaining trace of hair at her nape.

The cold, vibrating blade of the clippers touched Meher’s soft nape, sending a shiver down her spine. Slowly, the stylist guided the clippers upward, carefully tracing them along the line of her freshly cut bowl. Each pass cleared more hair, the long, chestnut strands falling over Meher’s shoulders and down into her lap. The weight of the discarded hair began to accumulate, settling onto Sana’s back beneath the cape, pressing down as an unspoken reminder of both their positions in the family.

The stylist continued, her touch gentle but precise, making sure every strand below the bowl line was buzzed evenly. Turning Meher’s head slightly to the left, she kept it tilted down, praising her in a soft voice. “You’re doing so well, sweet girl,” she murmured. “Just a little more, and we’ll be done.” Meher, though still teary, stayed perfectly still, enduring the strange sensation with obedience.

As the stylist buzzed one side, then the other, the hum of the clippers faded into silence. “Keep your head down just a bit longer, darling,” she instructed, setting the clippers aside. Reaching for a spray bottle, she misted the back of Meher’s neck with cool water, then massaged it gently, preparing the freshly shorn area for the straight razor.

The stylist unfolded the razor with a quick, practiced motion and leaned close to Meher’s ear, whispering, “This might tickle, but don’t move, okay? If you do, you could get a little nick.” Meher swallowed hard but nodded, her eyes squeezed shut as she waited. With a light, steady hand, the stylist began to shave, clearing away any remaining stubble and smoothing out Meher’s nape. Each stroke was deliberate, removing every trace of hair until the skin felt soft and completely clean.

When she was finally satisfied, the stylist set the razor aside, gently wiping Meher’s neck with a towel, leaving it perfectly smooth.

The stylist finally gave Meher permission to lift her head, then, in a playful tone, encouraged her, “Give your head a quick turn—let’s see that bowl cut swing!” Meher, cheeks still wet with tears, managed a small, reluctant twist of her head, and the cut shifted around her face in a neat circle. With the haircut finished, the stylist unclasped the cape, letting the heavy pile of Meher’s once long hair tumble to the floor.

Amina nodded approvingly and instructed Meher, “Off you go, dear. And thank Sana.” Still wrapped up in her sadness, Meher stepped off Sana’s back, barely acknowledging her, and ran to her mother, Nadia. She collapsed into her arms, letting her tears flow, and Nadia wrapped her daughter tightly, murmuring quiet words of comfort.

Amina’s gaze landed on Sana, her tone indifferent. “Sweep up here and take your position again, Sana. Hafsa’s turn is next.” Wiping a stray tear quickly before anyone could see, Sana did as instructed, brushing up the fallen locks with quiet efficiency. Each sweep of the broom felt heavy, a mixture of physical and emotional strain, but she kept her gaze lowered, avoiding the eyes of the others.

With her mother Razia’s nod of approval, young Hafsa approached Amina, ready for her turn. At only ten, Hafsa’s boldness showed in the way she held her chin up as she stood before her grandmother, awaiting instructions. She exchanged a quick look with Sana, who was already settling back on her hands and knees, steeling herself to act as the stool once again.

With Hafsa’s haircut completed, Amina called for little Naima, the youngest of the group. Naima’s wide, uncertain eyes darted toward her mother, Bushra, as she reluctantly approached the stool where Sana was already braced for another round. As the stylist caped Naima, her delicate ringlets peeked from beneath the fabric, bouncing slightly as she adjusted in her seat.

The stylist looked to Amina with a touch of hesitation. “Just like the others, ma’am? Given her curls, cutting this short will make the ringlets spring up tightly—they’ll likely end up quite high on her head once dry.”

Amina’s tone was firm. “That’s fine. I don’t want any disagreements later if one child’s hair is spared. Just keep it the same for all three.”

Hearing this, the stylist gave a resigned nod, lifting the comb and scissors as she began cutting through Naima’s soft ringlets. Under the cape and veiled from sight, Sana’s heart ached for the little girl, and she felt her own tears start to fall quietly in the shadows as she listened to the snips echo above. Naima’s soft whimpers cut through her, each snip reminding Sana of the helplessness she felt, forced into silence beneath the weight of her punishment.

Once the cut was done, Naima slid off Sana’s back, her small frame trembling with quiet sobs. She darted quickly to her mother, Bushra, who pulled her in close, wrapping her arms around her daughter as Naima buried her face in the folds of her hijab. Bushra’s soothing whispers were muffled, but her comfort was clear as she held Naima tightly. Sana, feeling the pang of longing, watched from her lowly position, unable even to catch a glimpse of Naima’s new look as Bushra’s long hijab shielded them both.

Without a word, Sana resumed her duties, silently collecting the scattered ringlets that had fallen, as Amina’s sharp gaze kept everyone in quiet obedience.

With Hafsa’s haircut completed, Amina called for little Naima, the youngest of the group. Naima’s wide, uncertain eyes darted toward her mother, Bushra, as she reluctantly approached the stool where Sana was already braced for another round. As the stylist caped Naima, her delicate ringlets peeked from beneath the fabric, bouncing slightly as she adjusted in her seat.

The stylist looked to Amina with a touch of hesitation. “Just like the others, ma’am? Given her curls, cutting this short will make the ringlets spring up tightly—they’ll likely end up quite high on her head once dry.”

Amina’s tone was firm. “That’s fine. I don’t want any disagreements later if one child’s hair is spared. Just keep it the same for all three.”

After hours of snipping and styling, the room had grown heavy with both the silence of some and the quiet sobs of others. The stylist, showing signs of fatigue, turned to Amina and asked if she could take a break, gently rubbing her tired hands. Amina nodded, acknowledging her effort, and quickly apologized. She called for Sana, instructing her to bring two chairs—one for herself and one for the stylist.

“Sana, get two chairs right away,” she ordered briskly. “And the rest of you, bring some refreshments and tea,” Amina added, directing the others to tend to the setup.

As the three mothers focused on calming their distraught daughters, the other women busied themselves with the refreshments, setting out trays and pouring tea. Once seated, Amina turned to the stylist, her tone softening as she thanked her for her work. They both settled into the chairs, Amina pouring a cup of tea for each of them as they began to chat, their conversation covering everything from the family to the stylist’s experience with various cuts. The room seemed to exhale for a moment, allowing everyone a small reprieve.

In the kitchen, the daughters-in-law hurriedly prepared tea and refreshments, their hands deftly working as they filled trays with snacks and poured steaming tea into delicate cups. Razia, Bushra, and Nadia soon joined them, eager to help with the setup.

“Are the girls doing any better?” Razia asked, her voice laced with concern as she neatly arranged plates of pastries.

“They’re much better now, thank you,” Nadia replied, glancing at the door where Meher had last exited. “It’s sad to see them with such short hair, but they’ll get used to it. We all did.”

Bushra, tying her hijab a bit tighter, grinned mischievously. “Just like we will!” She reached for a tray, adding a few more snacks to the pile. “I mean, after all this, who wouldn’t want a fresh start with a shorter haircut?”

Nadia chuckled, her chin-length hair peeking out from her hijab. “It’s just unfair that Saima got to keep her hair till her shoulders while the rest of us look like we’ve lost a battle!”

“Hey, I’m not complaining!” Saima said defensively, her shoulder-length hair glinting as she tied her apron. “I’d like to keep my hair for a little longer, thank you very much!”

“Maybe that’s because you’re hiding something,” Zainab teased, nudging her playfully. “What is it, Saima? Are you trying to keep your beauty for someone special?”

Saima’s cheeks flushed slightly, and she took a breath before admitting, “Actually, I found out yesterday that I’m a month pregnant.”

The kitchen fell silent for a moment, shock written on every face. Then, as if on cue, they erupted into excitement.

“Wow, that’s amazing!” Nadia exclaimed, her eyes wide. “You’re going to be a mother! Do you know how wonderful that is?”

“Congratulations!” Razia added, stepping closer to give Saima a hug. “You’ll have to take it easy now. No more long hours in the kitchen!”

As the celebration settled, the conversation shifted to Aisha and Sana, who had yet to get their haircuts.

“I wonder what kind of haircut they’ll get,” Khadija mused, pouring tea into cups. “If they don’t have a good excuse, I’m sure Ammi will make sure it’s just as short!”

“Unless they’re pregnant!” Bushra joked, her laughter filling the room. “Then they might get a pass. I mean, who would dare touch a pregnant woman’s hair?”

Just then, Ammi’s voice called from the other room. “Sana! Come here, please!”

“Uh-oh, there she goes,” Zainab said, raising an eyebrow as Sana rushed to obey.

“Looks like she’s next in line,” Nadia added, her tone light. “She’s in for it now!”

“Honestly, I worry about how much she’s handling,” Razia said, her expression serious. “It’s a lot for anyone to endure.”

“True, but we all know she’s strong,” Khadija replied. “Still, I hope Ammi isn’t too harsh on her.”

Just as they were about to dive deeper into their worries, Sana re-entered the kitchen, her presence brightening the atmosphere.

“Everything is ready!” Sana announced, a hint of relief in her voice. “I should go and serve Ammi and the stylist, and then you can all join after having a cup of tea.”

“Great job, Sana!” Saima praised, her excitement bubbling over again. “You’re always so efficient. We’ll be right behind you!”

Sana smiled shyly and nodded, then headed toward the main room to fulfill her duties. The daughters-in-law exchanged knowing glances as she left, their earlier concern momentarily set aside as they refocused on the task at hand, the warmth of tea and shared anticipation filling the kitchen once more.

In the kitchen, the daughters-in-law gathered around the table, their laughter mingling with the clinking of cups as they enjoyed their tea and snacks. They chatted in low tones, sharing stories and light-hearted jokes, momentarily putting aside the earlier tension about the haircuts.

Suddenly, Sana re-entered the kitchen, her hands balancing a large tray of empty plates. “Ammi is calling you all into the room again,” she announced, a hint of concern in her voice.

At the mention of Amina’s name, the sisters-in-law immediately straightened up, fixing their hijabs to ensure no stray hairs were visible. They adjusted their niqabs carefully, making sure only their eyes peeked out as they prepared to return to the room where Aisha and Sana awaited their turn.

Razia, noticing the change in mood, smiled gently. “I’ll stay here and wash up. I’ll join you after I clean up the dishes,” she offered, her hands already moving to gather the used cups.

Bushra, finishing the final adjustments to her niqab, shot a playful look at the others. “Back to the silent torture, ladies!” she quipped, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she tied the fabric securely. “Let’s see if they can survive the scissors like the rest of us did!”

With chuckles and knowing glances exchanged, the daughters-in-law walked toward the main room, while Razia busied herself with the dishes. As the other women left, she quickly collected the remaining snacks and arranged three plates filled with treats.

Once she had the plates ready, she made her way into the room, where Aisha and Sana sat, preparing themselves for the next round of haircuts. “Here you go, girls,” Razia said, her voice warm and encouraging as she offered each of them a plate with a smile hidden behind her niqab. “Enjoy these while you wait.”

The three children, who had settled down and momentarily forgotten about their haircuts, looked up with wide eyes. “Thank you, Auntie Razia!” they chimed in unison, their voices filled with respect and gratitude.

Accepting the plates with their own smiling faces peeking from beneath their hijabs, Meher, Hafsa, and Naima nodded appreciatively. The warmth of the moment momentarily distracted them from the impending haircut, and they began to nibble on the snacks with soft giggles, sharing small bites and whispers, while Razia stood by, watching over them with a mix of love and concern.

After washing the dishes, Razia made her way to the room where the others were gathered. She knocked gently on the door before entering, her heart heavy with concern for her daughters-in-law and the children. The atmosphere inside was tense, filled with a mixture of nervousness and resignation.

Quietly, Razia joined the group of veiled women seated on the floor, their hijabs framing their faces as they watched the events unfold. Her gaze landed on Aisha, who sat in the stylist’s chair, caped and waiting for her haircut. Leaning slightly towards one of her sisters-in-law, Razia whispered, “Where’s Sana?”

Aisha glanced up momentarily, but before the other daughter-in-law could respond, Razia’s attention was drawn to the stylist spraying and combing Aisha’s hair. Instinctively, she turned her gaze downward and noticed the black gloved hands peeking out from under the cape—Sana was still being made to serve as a stool for Aisha’s haircut.

A wave of empathy washed over Razia as she processed the scene. The realization that Sana was enduring the weight of Aisha’s presence filled her with sorrow. Her heart ached as she caught a glimpse of Sana, who was visibly struggling. Tears glistened in her eyes, and a small whimper escaped her lips, barely audible beneath the commotion.

“Stay quiet, Sana, or it will just get worse,” Amina’s voice rang out sharply, her tone laced with authority. Razia’s heart sank further as she witnessed the sharpness of Amina’s words, which cut through the room’s tension.

Sana, understanding the unspoken rule of silence in their family, quickly closed her lips behind her veil, tears spilling down her cheeks in silence. Razia felt a surge of protective instinct, wishing she could comfort her. The sight of her delicate daughter-in-law, typically filled with innocence and beauty, now reduced to a silent figure beneath the weight of the situation, was heartbreaking.

“Ammi, please let her be,” Razia thought, glancing toward Amina. “She’s only a girl.” But she knew better than to speak out in such moments. Instead, Razia remained seated, her heart heavy, silently willing Sana the strength to endure, wishing she could do something to lighten her burden.

Aisha sat perched on Sana’s back, her long, knee-length black hair cascading down like a silken river. The stylist moved deftly, draping a cape over her, making sure it covered her completely. The soft spray of water misted through Aisha’s hair, dampening each strand as the stylist combed through, straightening out every last inch. Meanwhile, Sana, struggling under the weight, held herself steady, shoulders trembling slightly from the strain.

The stylist looked up at Amina. “Ammi, what would you like done with Aisha’s hair?”

Amina tilted her head thoughtfully, her voice calm and unyielding. “Let’s go with something similar to Khadija’s,” she replied. “A pixie cut, short and neat.”

Aisha’s eyes went wide, her mouth open in shock as she processed the order. “Please, Ammi, no! Don’t make it that short!” she cried, her voice laced with desperation.

Amina’s gaze didn’t soften. “If you don’t sit quietly, Aisha, you’ll get an even shorter cut,” she warned. But Aisha’s pleas continued, tears pooling in her eyes, though she knew better than to raise her voice further.

Without further hesitation, Amina gave a final nod to the stylist, who lifted her scissors and began the first snip. Aisha felt the blade slice through her treasured locks, the silky weight of her hair falling away strand by strand. Her cries filled the room as the stylist worked methodically, each snip taking more of her length, her hair quickly disappearing and transforming into the short, choppy pixie cut. Aisha sobbed openly, watching her knee-length tresses be reduced to a mere fraction of what they once were.

But the stylist continued, seemingly unaffected, shaping Aisha’s hair precisely. When she was nearly finished, the stylist brushed aside the final cuttings and stepped back. “Would you like to check the style, Ammi?”

Amina approached, her expression one of satisfaction. She looked at Aisha, who sat in shock, her hands trembling under the cape. Amina’s gaze was critical, assessing the pixie cut with an unflinching eye. “Aisha,” she said coolly, “I warned everyone not to cry or protest. You did both.” Her voice softened, but it carried a weight that left no room for doubt. She turned back to the stylist, her tone resolute. “Make it shorter.”

The stylist nodded and stepped closer to Aisha, taking the scissors up again. Without missing a beat, she began snipping once more, turning the already short pixie into an even shorter crop, leaving mere half-inch tufts behind. The soft sound of hair falling filled the room, landing in Aisha’s lap and on her shoulders, some stray locks brushing against her cheeks before floating down. With each cut, her hair became shorter and shorter, until the final shape emerged—a close-cropped cut that revealed the delicate line of her jaw, the fringe on her forehead cut so close it barely grazed her brow.

As the stylist finished, Aisha sat silently, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her thick, long hair lay scattered on the floor, nothing remaining of the knee-length river of black hair she once cherished. The room was quiet now, the echoes of her earlier cries fading, replaced by a heavy stillness.

Amina gave a satisfied nod to the stylist, who immediately removed the cape from Aisha, freeing her from its weight and revealing her transformed, shorn hair. Aisha sat there, frozen in shock, feeling the cool air on the back of her neck and the unfamiliar lightness of her head. Her eyes filled with fresh tears as her hands trembled, slowly reaching upward, searching for the length that was no longer there. She kept feeling upward, her fingers meeting only the short, soft ends at the top of her head. Tears spilled over, and a soft sob escaped her lips as the reality of her lost hair fully sank in.

Below her, Sana, still supporting Aisha’s weight, was visibly struggling. Her hands and knees shook under the strain, and silent tears rolled down her cheeks beneath her niqab. She was exhausted from the effort, her whole body trembling as she tried her best not to collapse. She could feel Aisha’s weight finally shifting as Aisha slowly rose, unsteady, from her back. When she stood, Aisha stumbled a bit, and Amina placed a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Go and join the others,” she said with a calm authority.

Aisha wiped her tears and, with her head lowered, walked across the room to sit beside the other daughters-in-law on the floor. Razia, noticing Aisha’s trembling, put an arm around her and started helping her fix her hijab. “It’s alright, Aisha,” Razia whispered, gently adjusting the fabric and trying to calm her down. “It will grow back in time. You’re still beautiful.”

Aisha nodded, trying to hold back more tears, grateful for Razia’s comforting presence.

Meanwhile, Amina turned to Sana, who was still on her hands and knees, visibly worn and shaken. “Sana, sweep the floor now,” Amina instructed, her tone firm, “and then get ready. It’s your turn.”

Sana looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, but she simply nodded, too afraid to protest. Her legs wobbled as she pushed herself up from the floor, reaching for the broom. She quickly started sweeping, her mind racing, heart pounding as the reality of her own impending haircut settled upon her. She worked in silence, the room heavy with tension, each swish of the broom a reminder that soon, she would also be under the stylist’s merciless scissors.

Sana’s heart raced as she finished sweeping the floor, her mind consumed with a mixture of dread and sadness. She gently set the broom aside, her eyes cast down, already feeling the impending loss of the hair she cherished so much. Her long, dark locks were her pride, often hidden under her abaya but lovingly maintained, flowing like silk down to her ankles. It was her one solace in a world where she was always serving, always listening, and rarely heard.

She took a deep breath, straightened her niqab and hijab, and approached Amina with a quiet, respectful bow of her head. Amina nodded approvingly and motioned for the stylist to prepare. Without a word, the stylist took out the cape and gestured for Sana to sit. Sana sank onto the floor, her heart pounding, gloved hands gripping the sides of her dress. As the cape was fastened around her neck, she felt trapped, her breaths coming quicker.

The stylist as her to removed her niqab and hijab, then the stylist unwrapped her long, heavy braid, letting it cascade down in a dark waterfall around her. The room fell silent as her hair tumbled down, a stark contrast to the others’ recently shorn styles. Even Amina, usually so firm, took a moment, almost in reluctant admiration, as the full length of Sana’s hair spread out across the floor.

Sana, barely holding back tears, took her seat in front of the stylist, feeling the heavy cape being fastened around her neck. Her hands trembled under it, hidden from view as her long, dark hair spilled down her back, cascading in glossy waves to her ankles. The sight of her hair spread out across the floor even made the stylist pause for a moment before Amina cleared her throat, making her command clear.

“Start by taking it to her shoulders,” Amina ordered, glancing at Sana with a look that left no room for protest.

Sana closed her eyes, bracing herself, but the first snip was still a shock. With swift, firm cuts, the stylist severed the length just above Sana’s shoulders, transforming the ankle-length river of hair into a much shorter style. Long locks fell heavily around her, covering her lap and cascading onto the floor in thick waves. Amina watched with an unchanging expression as Sana’s cherished hair was reduced, the stylist combing and cutting with practiced precision.

But even as the stylist finished, Amina’s gaze sharpened. “Shorter,” she commanded. “It still seems too long.”

The stylist exchanged a quick glance with Amina and nodded. She lifted her scissors again, positioning them just above Sana’s chin. Sana’s shoulders tensed as the stylist began to cut again, this time transforming her shoulder-length hair into a bob that framed her face. With each snip, more of her hair tumbled down, and Sana’s tears began to escape, slipping silently down her cheeks beneath her niqab.

When the stylist finished the bob, she stepped back slightly, glancing to Amina for approval. But Amina wasn’t done. She tilted her head thoughtfully before speaking again.

“No, that’s still not enough,” she said firmly. “Let’s take it to a pixie cut.”

Sana’s heart sank as the stylist wordlessly began the next round of cutting. This time, she lifted the hair close to Sana’s scalp, trimming it shorter and shorter until there was little left to frame her face. Now, Sana’s beloved locks were scattered around her in a pile, the rich, dark lengths a painful reminder of what had been. The pixie cut made her feel small, stripped of her one cherished feature, and it took all her strength to keep her sobs contained.

Yet, even the pixie cut didn’t seem to satisfy Amina. She moved forward, inspecting the remaining hair before giving one final command.

“Make it like Aisha’s. A close crop.”

Sana’s eyes widened, her breath catching as the stylist nodded and began to trim what little remained, taking her hair down to a crop cut so short her scalp almost showed. The soft sound of snipping was unending, each snip sending the remaining wisps down until her hair was barely half an inch long all over. Small chunks fell to the floor, some catching on her shoulders and cheeks, before sliding off her cape and joining the already large pile below.

Finally, the stylist stepped back, studying her work, and then looked to Amina. “Is this short enough?”

Sana sat quietly as the stylist picked up her clippers, their ominous hum filling the room. As the clippers touched the back of her head, she felt a chill run through her, though she stayed silent, knowing any sound could make things worse. The clippers moved up slowly, removing the last of her short, dark strands, leaving behind only a faint, prickly layer of stubble. With each pass, more skin was exposed, and Sana’s heart sank, feeling the last traces of her once-beloved hair fall away.

When the back and sides of her head were completely buzzed, the stylist lifted her head, making Sana look directly at her sisters-in-law. Her tear-filled eyes met the veiled faces across from her, all watching in silence, some with sympathy in their eyes, while others held an indifferent gaze. She felt the clippers run over the top of her head, leaving her with nothing more than a rough buzz, and a part of her sank lower still, realizing her hair had been taken so far beyond what she’d imagined.

The stylist finished, then looked at Amina, who moved closer, touching Sana’s head with an expression of displeasure. “It feels like a dish scrubber,” she remarked dryly. “Can it be made smooth?”

The stylist nodded, setting the clippers down before reaching for a spray bottle and wetting Sana’s head thoroughly. She massaged the water into the remaining stubble, prepping her scalp. Sana closed her eyes, feeling the cold water mix with her warm tears. She barely reacted as the stylist brought out a disposable straight-edge razor, making small, steady strokes over her scalp to remove the remaining stubble completely. With every swipe, Sana’s scalp became smoother, finally left shining as the stylist wiped it down, carefully ensuring no tiny hair was left.

Once finished, the stylist turned to Amina, who inspected Sana’s head with a look of satisfaction. She placed her hand on Sana’s newly shaved head, rubbing it slightly, and a small, pleased smile spread across her face.

“Perfect,” Amina murmured, her tone final. She nodded to the stylist, signaling her approval. The stylist, wordlessly efficient, removed the cape from around Sana’s shoulders, allowing the last bits of dark hair to fall to the floor. Then, without hesitation, she began packing her tools.

“Is there anyone else?” she asked, glancing at Amina.

Amina shook her head. “No, that will be all,” she replied. She then instructed Sana, “Clean this up, and I’ll see the lady off.”

With that, Amina escorted the stylist out of the room, leaving Sana sitting on the floor, silently crying, surrounded by the remains of her beautiful hair. She touched her smooth scalp, the loss sinking in as she ran her hands over the bare skin where her cherished hair had once been.

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