Under the Hijab

The soft morning light filtered through the dusty trees lining the college boundary, casting moving shadows across the garden lawn. Students trickled in from the main gate, laughing, chattering, clutching their books and sipping from water bottles.

Sana stepped in through the college gates, her figure modest and graceful in the traditional Pakistani-style uniform—a crisp white kameez paired with a sky-blue shalwar and dupatta. Her long, thick, knee-length black hair, parted down the middle, was styled in a trendy twisted half-up bun today, the rest cascading smoothly down her back. The gentle sway of her hair moved in sync with her steps, turning more than a few heads as she walked.

She spotted the girls instantly—her group, the tight-knit five she had slowly become part of over the last few months. They sat cross-legged on the grass in their usual spot in the garden, laughter erupting every few seconds, their hijabs fluttering slightly in the light breeze. Each of them wore theirs differently—one tied tight and neat, another loose and stylish—but they all had that one common thread. The hijab.

As always, their energy was infectious.

“Sanaaaa!” called out Hina, waving with exaggerated excitement. “Come here, yaaar, we were just talking about how Zoya snorted in her sleep during the lecture yesterday!”

Zoya gasped dramatically. “It was ONE time! I was exhausted!”

The group burst into more giggles as Sana approached and lowered herself onto the grass beside them, tucking her dupatta modestly.

“You’re all so loud,” Sana chuckled, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I could hear you from the gate.”

“That’s the idea,” chimed in Fariha. “We like being the college celebrities.”

Sana joined in the laughter, watching as the girls poked fun at one another, their voices full of warmth. For ten minutes, it was all playful chaos—talking about missed assignments, the horrible taste of the canteen samosas, and trying to guess which lecturer would be late again.

The college bell rang out sharply across the campus, slicing through the lighthearted chatter.

“Ughhh, reality check,” groaned Zara, reaching for her bag. “Let’s go, queens.”

The six girls stood, brushing grass off their clothes and adjusting their bags. As they walked toward their class in a loose group, still teasing and talking, Sana found herself trailing just a step behind, her eyes drifting thoughtfully to each of her friends.

It had been four months since she’d been accepted into their circle. At first, she’d felt honored—this group was known around campus for their confident energy, their unbreakable bond, their pranks and jokes that even the teachers learned to tolerate. And yet… even after all this time, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a fine, invisible line separating her from them.

Not in a way that was cruel or obvious—no one ever said anything hurtful, no one excluded her from plans. But it was always there… a subtle distance. Like an inside joke she wasn’t in on.

Usually, she would brush the thought aside. But today, it clung to her as the day dragged on. Between lectures, through jokes, after classes, the feeling pulsed steadily beneath her smile.

By the time the last class ended and the girls began packing up, she could barely concentrate.

“Bye, Sana!” they chorused in unison, all five of them turning down the opposite path toward their nearby homes. Sana waved, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she took her usual solitary route in the other direction.

The streets were quiet, the late afternoon sun painting long shadows on the sidewalk. Her mind drifted, replaying the day. The girls’ laughter. Their casual teasing. That moment she walked behind them, always just slightly out of sync.

And then, like a soft click inside her mind—
It hit her.

The hijab.

She stopped walking.

Every single one of them wore it. Proudly. Confidently. Uniformly. And yet, she never had. Her long hair, always styled with care and attention, always left uncovered. Could that be it?

Her lips curled into a small, ironic smile. As if she’d finally cracked a riddle that had been sitting in front of her all this time.

Maybe… maybe it was time to try something different.

The morning air was warmer than usual. Inside her bedroom, Sana stood in front of the mirror, frowning slightly at her reflection. A pale blue hijab rested clumsily over her head, clearly new. She had spent over twenty minutes trying to wrap it the way she remembered seeing her friends do — folds here, pins there — but no matter how many YouTube tutorials she watched the night before, it just wouldn’t cooperate.

Her long, thick hair was twisted into a giant bun, barely tamed beneath the scarf. A few loose strands poked out rebelliously from the sides and near her ears, and the bun at the back kept tugging the fabric down, threatening to undo the whole thing. She sighed, adjusted the scarf once more, and finally gave up trying to perfect it.

“This will have to do,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and heading out.

As she entered the college gates, heads turned — not in admiration this time, but with mild curiosity. She could already feel it: the uneven pull of her hijab, the bunched fabric near her neck, the soft slippage at the back where her massive bun had almost won the fight against gravity.

From a distance, her group sat at their usual garden spot — five bright scarves bobbing as they laughed and gossiped, already halfway into some absurd story. A few of them looked toward the gate.

“Who’s that mess?” Fariha snickered, squinting.

“I swear, someone’s hijab is trying to escape,” Zara added with a chuckle.

“Looks like it’s her first time ever wearing one,” chimed Hina, eyes narrowing.

As Sana walked closer, their laughter grew awkwardly quiet, eyes watching her approach, expressions uncertain. Their smiles froze. They genuinely looked puzzled.

Sana stopped in front of them, giving an uncertain wave.

“Uh… it’s me,” she said with an embarrassed half-smile.

A beat of silence.

Then all five burst into laughter — full, unfiltered, honest-to-God belly laughter. Even Zoya nearly toppled over from how hard she was shaking.

“Sana?!” Zoya gasped. “THAT’S YOU?!”

“What happened to your poor hijab?” Fariha howled. “Did it attack you in your sleep?!”

Zara stood up, imitating Sana’s lopsided scarf with exaggerated flair. “Look at me, I’m Sana—hair bun by Mount Everest, and pins held together by sheer desperation!”

Even Sana couldn’t help but laugh through the redness creeping onto her face. Her ears burned, her fingers reflexively trying to tuck in the loose strands, but the energy of the group was too loud, too chaotic to pause for shame.

“Yaaar,” Hina said between giggles, “don’t take this wrong. You look… adorable. Like a hijabi in training.”

“Well, at least now we don’t have to look at your shiny shampoo-commercial hair making us jealous every day,” Zara teased, nudging her playfully.

They all finally sat down, still grinning, their jokes softening into affection. Sana sank into the grass among them, adjusting her hijab as best as she could. It still felt foreign, awkward. She felt every pin dig into her scalp, every strand threatening to fall.

“So what changed?” Hina asked after the laughter calmed. “Woke up and thought, ‘Let me join the club?’”

Sana glanced down, fidgeting with her dupatta, voice barely above a whisper.
“Just… wanted to try it,” she said softly. “Kind of had a bad hair day. Thought this might help.”

The girls smiled at one another knowingly. The moment hovered — they were about to say something, maybe tease her gently, maybe dig a little deeper…

But the college bell rang, sharp and sudden, scattering the conversation like leaves in the wind.

“Saved by the bell!” Zoya said dramatically, grabbing her bag.

“Don’t worry, Sana,” Fariha grinned. “We’ll have a proper hijab tutorial class at lunch.”

“And maybe a funeral for your bun,” Hina added under her breath, earning another round of giggles.

As they got up and headed toward class, Sana walked with them — a little flushed, a little self-conscious — but oddly lighter than before. Even if they laughed at her, they had laughed with her. She hadn’t been left out. Not this time.

Still, she couldn’t shake the thought:
Was this really it? Was the hijab all it took?
Or was there something else she hadn’t figured out yet?

The midday sun hung heavy over the campus, baking the courtyards in a warm golden glow. Inside the cafeteria, the six girls huddled around a table in the corner—plates half-eaten, drinks untouched, the laughter flowing as easily as the gossip.

Sana sat among them, her hijab slightly more controlled now thanks to a few impromptu interventions between classes, though several stray strands still peeked through near her temples. Her massive bun underneath continued to be a silent rebel, slowly sliding down again, tugging the scarf awkwardly from the back.

Hina clicked her tongue and leaned closer.

“Come here, let me fix that again,” she said, already reaching across the table to pull the hijab forward.

“She needs stronger pins,” Zoya muttered with a smirk. “Or weaker hair.”

“Her bun is the problem,” Fariha said. “It’s not a bun, it’s a beehive. Sana, what even is that thing?”

Sana chuckled shyly. “It’s just… my hair’s thick. This is the only way I know how to tie it up.”

The girls exchanged glances—sparkling with mischief, a glimmer of something deeper in their eyes.

“You know,” Zara began slowly, twirling her spoon thoughtfully, “maybe you need a new hairstyle. Something that makes the hijab sit properly. Like… a tight braid. Or…”

“Or,” Hina added quickly, her voice suspiciously light, “you could just cut it short.”

There was a tiny pause—so small, it could’ve been missed. But Sana felt it.

Then someone—Zoya, ever the impulsive one—gasped dramatically and slapped her own mouth.
“Shhh! Don’t say it like that! Don’t let her find out!”

“Zoya!” Fariha hissed in mock alarm, “We talked about this!”

Sana blinked. “Wait. Find out what?”

The group shifted. For a moment, everything froze—then they all started talking at once, overlapping voices, playfully brushing her off.

“Oh nothing nothing—just nonsense,”
“She’s kidding!”
“Inside joke, you wouldn’t get it—”
“Forget it, yaar, just focus on your food.”

But Sana’s curiosity was now hooked, and they knew it.

She narrowed her eyes, leaning in. “No, seriously. What is it?”

Hina looked around dramatically, then lowered her voice like she was sharing classified information.

“You really want to know?” she asked, solemnly. The others stared at her, some eyes wide, some pretending to panic.

“Don’t!” Zara whispered loudly. “Don’t tell her—”

But Hina leaned closer, tone suddenly calm. Too calm.

“We’re all bald,” she said simply. “Under our hijabs.”

A beat.

Sana blinked. “What?”

“Bald,” Hina repeated, nodding as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “Shaved. Zero cut. All of us. That’s the secret.”

If someone else in the cafeteria had overheard, they might’ve believed it. Hina’s voice had that tone—the carefully crafted sincerity, the neutral confidence. The others played their parts perfectly: Fariha looked down as if guilty, Zoya let out a tiny nervous laugh, and Zara covered her face, as though they’d been exposed.

Sana’s jaw fell slightly open.

She scanned their expressions, but there was no hint of the usual laughter. Just quiet confirmation. It was so convincing that for a flicker of a second, the thought actually settled in her brain: Could it be true?

Before she could say another word, the bell rang—loud and sharp, like a wake-up call from a dream.

“Oh no, class!” Zoya jumped up.

“Come on, quick—move before Miss Ruksana sees us loitering again,” Fariha urged.

In seconds, they were gathering their bags, avoiding eye contact with Sana as though they’d spilled something they shouldn’t have. Zara threw one last wink over her shoulder as she walked away.

“You didn’t hear it from us,” she whispered, grinning.

And just like that, the group scattered, leaving Sana sitting alone, eyes wide, brain spinning.

Bald? All of them?
But… their scarves always looked so full. Their foreheads, hairlines—were they faking that too?

She reached up, fingers brushing her own scarf-covered head, her bun still tucked—barely—beneath it.

Was this what made them so bonded? A shared secret? A ritual?

She stood slowly, her appetite gone. The hijab felt heavier now. Not physically, but symbolically—like it was hiding a truth she didn’t know how to understand yet.

And for the first time since joining them, Sana didn’t just want to fit in.

She needed to.

For the rest of the day, Sana couldn’t focus.

Every time she looked at the girls—laughing, chatting, answering questions in class, passing notes and nudging each other—her mind kept circling back to that one word.

Bald.

She stole glances when they weren’t looking, trying to spot inconsistencies: maybe a slip of hair, a sign, something. But the girls were flawless—scarves perfectly in place, not a single strand visible, even the ones with loosely tied hijabs somehow managed to reveal… nothing.

During class breaks, Sana would lean in whenever she could, voice lowered just enough to pass as private curiosity.

“Were you guys really serious earlier?”

Fariha, caught mid-sip from her bottle, simply smiled over the rim. “What do you think?”

Zoya gave a little laugh, that kind of mischievous giggle that answered everything and nothing all at once.

Even Hina, the ringleader, merely gave her a knowing look and tapped her finger gently against her own lips—as if saying shhh, it’s our secret now.

The ambiguity was torture.

By the time the final bell rang, Sana had made up her mind. She waited outside their classroom door, arms folded, eyes firm. As the girls gathered their bags and began filing out, she stopped them.

“Wait. Before you all leave—I need to talk to you.”

They paused, expressions curious—but not surprised. In fact, there was a quiet signal exchanged between them: Zara’s eyebrow lift, Hina’s subtle glance, Zoya’s hand brushing her scarf a little higher.

They knew exactly what was coming.

They moved to a quiet bench under the neem tree by the garden. The same spot they sat that morning. This time, the laughter had quieted, and the late afternoon breeze rustled their scarves lightly.

Sana stood, hands clenched, heart pounding.

“You said… you were all bald under the hijab. All five of you.”
She looked around. “Were you serious?”

The girls didn’t speak for a beat.

Then Hina sighed softly. “I told you not to ask.”

“That’s not an answer,” Sana said. “Please.”

Fariha played with the edge of her dupatta. “Well… now you know.”

Zoya leaned her chin into her hand dramatically. “It’s not exactly something we… like talking about.”

“But why?” Sana pressed. “Why would you… shave it all?”

Zara leaned in, as if sharing a deep, vulnerable secret. “You want the real story?”

Sana nodded eagerly.

“Well,” Zara started slowly, voice low and heavy with a kind of forced nostalgia, “it started in first year. There was this heatwave—terrible. The worst. I was constantly sweating, hijab stuck to my head, my hair felt like a burden. And one day, I just… shaved it. Zero machine. Full bald.”

Sana’s eyes widened.

“I thought I was crazy,” Zara continued, “but then I told the others. And one by one, they all followed.”

“But wait…” Sana’s mind was spinning. “You all decided to just… do it? Together?”

“It was liberating,” Hina said. “No tangles, no hair care, no sweat. Just breeze and peace.”

Sana looked from one to the other, disbelief written across her face. “But what about now? I mean… don’t you regret it?”

Zoya shrugged. “Not even a little.”

Fariha added, “Honestly? We’ve kept doing it ever since. It’s our little pact.”

“But I’ve never seen any of you without hijab,” Sana said, desperate for a crack in the story. “Not even a strand of hair slipping out.”

Zara tilted her head. “Exactly.”

Then Hina leaned forward, a sly smile on her lips.

“Tell me something, Sana. In all these four months—you’ve been staring enough—have you ever seen a single hair poking out of any of our hijabs?”

Sana opened her mouth. Closed it.

She tried to recall. But… no. Never.

Even Zoya, whose scarf always dangled slightly askew, somehow never revealed anything.

“No,” Sana admitted, almost whispering.

Hina’s grin widened, victorious.

Zoya shifted closer and tilted her head. “Here,” she said, guiding Sana’s hand upward gently, “touch it.”

Sana blinked. “What?”

“Touch the top of my scarf,” Zoya repeated. “Go on. Feel for yourself.”

Sana hesitated, then slowly raised her fingers, pressing gently against the cloth over Zoya’s head.

It was… smooth. So smooth.

No bumps. No lines. No bulk. Just fabric snug against scalp.

Her breath hitched. “It really… feels like…”

Zoya winked. “Exactly.”

And as if to deliver the final blow, Fariha turned around and tilted her neck forward slightly.
“See?” she said, pulling her scarf just enough to reveal the nape of her neck.
“No baby hairs. No loose strands.”

She wasn’t lying. The skin was bare.

Completely smooth.

Sana stepped back, heart thudding. A dozen questions stormed her mind, but none came out.

The girls just smiled—gently, like they were letting her into a sacred sisterhood.

No teasing. No laughter now.

Just an unspoken agreement: If you believe it, you belong.

The final moments of the day passed in a haze for Sana.

As the group stood to leave the college courtyard, bags slung on shoulders and their hijabs still perfectly in place, it was Hina who gave the final twist of the knife.

“We should head home before it gets too late,” she said, brushing invisible dust from her dupatta. “If my father gets back early, we won’t be able to do our weekly shave.”

“Yeah,” Zara added casually, “We promised we’d all do it today.”

Fariha gave a mock pout. “Ugh, I hate when I get lazy and I let the stubble grow more than a day.”

The words sliced through Sana’s mind like sharp shears.

They said it so casually, so naturally, as if they were talking about trimming nails or brushing teeth. She just stood there, lips slightly parted, too stunned to even nod goodbye.

The group smiled and waved, walking off in one direction like a well-rehearsed dance troupe, their laughter drifting behind them.

Sana walked the opposite way.

Alone.

A thousand thoughts storming her mind.

“Weekly? Shave? All of them? Bald? Since first year?”

She touched her own scarf, feeling the pins shift under her fingers. Her bun was still massive, threatening to slip out of the hijab again. A strand poked out near her ear, as if rebelling against the fabric that now felt more like a disguise than a garment of modesty.

She couldn’t tell what disturbed her more — the idea that they were all bald… or the fact that somehow, it made sense.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the road, the girls huddled into their familiar cluster, walking in rhythm.

Hina snorted. “Did you see her face when you said ‘weekly shave’? I thought she’d faint!”

Zoya laughed, “Please, I almost broke character when she touched my scarf.”

Fariha turned to her. “What was that under your scarf, by the way? It felt like scalp!”

Zoya flicked her brows. “Stiff net hijab cap. I wore the one with the velvet lining underneath. You pat it down right, it feels exactly like a shaved head.”

“Genius,” Zara chuckled. “You deserve an award.”

“And you,” Zoya said, nodding at Fariha, “how did you get rid of all your baby hairs? Your neck looked… suspiciously clean.”

Fariha grinned. “I had my haircut last week — I asked the stylist to taper the back. Bare skin, baby. Told her it was for hygiene.”

They all burst into another wave of laughter.

“I swear,” said Hina, “I didn’t think Sana would take it this far. But she’s hooked.”

“She wants to believe it,” said Zara. “It’s written all over her face. That craving to belong. We just gave her a thread to pull.”

Zoya added, “She’s not going to let this go easily. I say… we continue. See how far she’s willing to go.”

Hina’s voice turned syrupy with mock sympathy. “Poor thing’s gonna have a full-on identity crisis by next week.”

They giggled again.

“Tomorrow,” said Zara, “we up the game. Let’s all wear our hijabs tighter. Super smooth. No bumps.”

“Let’s whisper more, too,” Zoya added, “like we’re hiding something… but not hiding it well enough.”

Hina smirked. “Oh, and let’s drop little suggestions. Like ‘It grows back softer.’ Or ‘It’s only hard the first time.’”

Fariha added, “And we can say things like ‘I think Sana’s brave enough’ — plant the seed.”

Zoya hummed, pretending to wipe a fake tear. “We’re such evil besties.”

“No,” said Hina, eyes gleaming, “we’re just making her… one of us.”

The next day, the garden scene repeated like a well-rehearsed play. The five hijabi girls sat in their usual circle, laughter echoing under the morning sun. Their scarves today were neater than ever — not a single lump or visible bump. Zoya’s hijab hugged her head so tightly it looked painted on. Hina’s was so smooth, it could have been vacuum-sealed.

As Sana approached, she looked a bit more confident in her hijab. She had clearly tried hard to wrap it right. Pins were placed more securely. The bun still puffed at the back, but it was tighter — almost as if she’d reduced the size of it.

“Look who finally got the memo!” Fariha grinned as Sana sat down.

“Oh ho,” Zara smirked, “She’s learning fast.”

“Looking good today, Sana,” Zoya chimed in, “Any struggles today?”

“Still a little tricky,” Sana smiled politely, “But I think I’m getting there.”

As the day unfolded, the girls subtly stepped up their psychological game — careful not to push too hard. Just enough hints. A few whispered conversations when Sana was close. Some innocent comments dropped like confetti.

“I love how cool it feels in the summer.”

“Imagine shampooing your head with no hair— feels like heaven.”

“I don’t miss the itching at all.”

Every time Sana heard something, she paused for just a moment, then resumed whatever she was doing. She asked fewer questions now… which only made the girls more certain she was digging deeper in private.

By lunch, the group shared a quiet, conspiratorial glance.

“She’s being quiet today,” Hina whispered. “Maybe it’s sinking in.”

“Or she’s planning something,” Zoya muttered.

They agreed to keep things smooth. Let her come to them.

And she did.

Right at the end of the day, as everyone packed their bags, laughter fading into yawns and tired groans, Sana turned to the group.

Her voice calm. Sweet. Innocent.

“By the way,” she said casually, adjusting her scarf, “I talked to my mom last night.”

All five girls turned to her in near-unison.

“About what?” Zara asked, feigning innocence.

“My hair,” Sana said simply, “And the hijab. Told her I’m struggling with it a bit.”

They nodded slowly, watching her carefully.

“She suggested maybe I should get it cut. Said it’ll be easier to manage under a hijab. I agreed.”

Now their eyes widened slightly, though they kept straight faces.

“I’m going to the salon today,” she added, picking up her bag, “Getting it trimmed to my shoulders.”

There was a full second of complete silence.

Then, a half-laugh. Zoya’s.

“Oh wow… really?” she said, trying to sound impressed, “That’s… brave.”

Sana smiled. “It’ll be weird, but I think it’ll help.”

The group exchanged quiet glances. Beneath the surface, a wave of panic passed like static electricity.

Was she being serious? Was she just bluffing to throw them off? Had she figured it all out and was now toying with them?

Zara leaned in. “Wait, you mean like… actually shoulder-length?”

“Yeah,” Sana said, fixing her scarf gently. “That should be short enough… for now.”

“For now?”

Sana just smiled and walked off, leaving the five of them frozen on the steps.

Once Sana disappeared around the corner, the group huddled close, their laughter fading into uneasy murmurs.

“She’s not actually serious… right?” Hina asked, glancing nervously at the others.

“She sounded serious,” Zoya muttered, frowning. “But… maybe she was just trying to mess with us.”

“No way,” Fariha said, folding her arms. “It was a comeback. A bluff. She figured it out and now she’s pretending she believed us. Classic reverse prank.”

“I don’t know…” Zara said, her voice lower. “What if she did believe us? What if she’s trying to prove herself… to fit in?”

There was a beat of silence. None of them had expected the prank to push this far.

“She wouldn’t actually cut her hair… would she?” whispered Hina. “I mean, that long braid? She loves it.”

“She always styles it like it’s her crown,” Fariha added. “She wouldn’t just give it up.”

“But what if she thinks that’s the only way to be part of us?” Zoya said quietly.

Zara exhaled slowly. “We’ve messed with people before, but this…”

The group fell quiet. The garden around them had begun to clear out, the sounds of chatter and footsteps fading as the college emptied.

“Well…” Hina finally said, “we’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Fariha nodded, but the usual confidence in her tone had waned. “Just… wait and see.”

“Hopefully,” Zara said, her voice soft now, “she was just playing us back.”

And as the girls parted ways, there was no triumphant giggling or plotting this time. Just a lingering unease among them — a feeling they hadn’t expected when the joke began.

They didn’t actually want Sana to cut her hair.
They were only joking.

But what if the joke had gone too far?

Later That Evening

The glow of Hina’s bedside lamp flickered gently as she sat cross-legged on her bed, phone clutched tightly in her hand. Her thumb hovered over Sana’s contact.

A hundred thoughts raced through her head.

It was just a prank. Just a joke. She wasn’t supposed to take it seriously!

But Sana’s face earlier that day—it had held something different. A calm determination. And her voice when she mentioned the haircut…

Hina tapped the call button.

It rang once. Twice.

Then: Click.

“Hello?” Sana’s voice came through, a little distracted, some quiet chatter and music audible in the background.

“Sana, hey—it’s Hina, listen—about what you said earlier—were you serious?”

But before Hina could finish, Sana calmly interrupted, “Sorry, it’s my turn. The stylist just called me in. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“What? Wait! Sana, please, just listen to me for a sec—”

Click.

The line went dead.

Hina’s heart dropped.

“No, no, no… Sana, don’t…” she murmured as she hit redial.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Hina stared at the phone, guilt swirling in her stomach like a storm.

At the Salon – Sana’s Haircut

The glass doors of the salon whispered shut behind her. The air inside was cool, fragrant with the scent of jasmine shampoo, hair sprays, and warm blow dryers humming in the background.

The stylist—a cheerful young woman in a mauve apron—smiled as Sana walked in.

“Hi there! You’re next, right? Come on over!”

Sana gave a polite nod. Her mother, following behind, beamed with encouragement as they moved toward the large mirror.

“Have a seat, sweetie,” the stylist said, gesturing to the plush black chair. Sana sank into it, her long thick braid sliding over her shoulder like a velvet rope.

“Wow,” the stylist said, marveling. “This is so long. It must’ve taken you years.”

Sana gave a nervous smile. “It’s always been like this…”

“Alright, let’s get you caped.”

With a soft rustle, the stylist pulled a large black cape from the rack. She shook it open with a snap before gently lifting Sana’s braid and sweeping the cape around her. The cool fabric fastened snugly at her neck with a small, tight click.

The braid was thick, impossibly heavy-looking, coiled like a rope down her back and nearly to her waist. The stylist laid it across Sana’s front to admire it.

“So, what are we doing today? Just a trim?”

Sana took a breath. “No. I want a straight cut… to the shoulders.”

The stylist blinked. “Oh! Big change. Are you sure?”

Sana nodded.

“Alright. But… if I can suggest,” the stylist said, fingers already combing through the braid, “you’ve got a lot of volume. Layers would really help soften it—especially around your face. A straight chop will be heavy and might puff out.”

Before Sana could respond, her mother chimed in. “I told her the same. A few layers, maybe some face-framing?”

Sana looked up in the mirror. “No layers. Just straight, one length.”

The stylist smiled, though a little disappointed. “Of course. One straight cut it is.”

But as she turned to her scissors, her eyes met Sana’s in the mirror, and there was something calculating behind her cheerful tone.

She gently undid the braid, letting the thick waves tumble down Sana’s back. The hair fanned out in lush, black waves—long, silky, alive. The kind of hair stylists dream of working with.

Combing it thoroughly, she parted it down the center, sectioned it cleanly, then gathered it all flat across the back.

“Alright,” she said, lifting the hair and measuring just at the shoulders. “Here we go.”

SNIP.

The first cut echoed. A heavy chunk of hair dropped to the floor.

Then came the next.

And another.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

The weight of each cut was visible—thick locks cascading down, pooling like black silk on the tiles below.

The stylist was swift but deliberate, each snip surgical.

Sana sat stiffly, her shoulders tense, watching as her own identity fell around her like confetti.

“You’re doing great,” the stylist said. “Almost there.”

But she didn’t stop.

Instead, she sectioned off small layers at the crown.

Just one or two near the temples…

“Let me just clean this area near your face—it’ll blend better this way.”

Before Sana could argue, the scissors were already sliding upward.

Snip.

A few wispy strands fell… to her cheeks. Then shorter ones near the eyes.

Sana blinked in surprise. “I said—no layers.”

The stylist smiled. “Just a touch. You won’t even notice. These’ll fall in with the rest.”

But Sana did notice. As the final trims were done, the mirror revealed a new girl. Her thick black curtain of hair had been replaced with a light, softly cascading cut ending just below her shoulders. But the layers—especially the front—were unmistakable.

The shortest hovered just below her eyes, feathering out to her chin and jaw, blending toward the ends.

Sana lifted her hands, trying to pull it back.

The hair slipped between her fingers.

She tried twisting it into a bun.

But the front layers slid out, framing her face like mischievous tendrils.

She shook her head lightly. The strands swayed and landed right back on her cheeks, some brushing her lashes.

Her mother handed her the hijab. Sana began wrapping it with the same practiced motions.

But something was off.

The scarf puffed strangely at the sides. She pulled it tighter—now the layers poked out beneath her chin. Tighter still—her temples throbbed, but the baby hairs escaped anyway. And now, with every blink, a strand teased her eye.

The worst part?

She looked messy.

Not modest. Not neat. Just… awkward.

Sana’s fingers kept trying to tuck and pin and smooth—but nothing worked. The layers didn’t lie flat. They didn’t stay.

The stylist’s voice broke her focus. “You look so fresh! This really suits you.”

Sana gave a tight smile. “Thanks.”

But deep down, she felt cheated. Betrayed by her own reflection.

It wasn’t what she wanted.

And now… there was no undoing it.

Next morning the sun had barely climbed over the college rooftops when the five girls spotted her—walking toward them through the morning haze.

Their laughter softened. Eyes squinted. Necks craned.

That hijab… it was familiar. But the shape?

Zoya’s brows furrowed. “Wait…”

As Sana got closer, the truth began to show itself—rebellious tufts of layered black hair poking from the sides, teasing the edges of the scarf. A few silky strands had curled their way out along her jaw. Most tellingly, shorter wisps fluttered across her brow, refusing to stay tucked in, no matter how tightly the hijab was pinned.

“Oh my God,” Hina whispered.

Sana walked straight up, clearly annoyed and tired, tugging her hijab’s corners repeatedly. “Yes,” she snapped before they could even ask. “I got the haircut.”

Everyone went quiet.

Even the usual gigglers were caught off guard.

“It wasn’t even what I asked for,” Sana continued, exasperated. “I told her shoulder-length, straight. That’s it. But she started giving me layers—and now look! I can’t even wear my hijab properly!”

She tugged the scarf to demonstrate. The strands rebelliously slipped right back into view like they were mocking her.

Zoya bit her lip, trying not to smile.

Fariha looked visibly guilty. “Sana… we didn’t mean for—”

But before any apologies could bloom, she spoke.

It was Zara—the one who always kept the prank alive, the one with the twinkle in her eye and a tongue too quick.

“Well, hey,” she chirped, shrugging. “Maybe you should just shave your head like us.”

Hina’s eyes widened. “Zara—no—”

But the bell rang before anyone else could jump in.

The moment shattered into the shrill echo of footsteps as students scattered toward their classes.

The hours passed, slow and frustrating.

Sana tried every trick she could think of to manage her hair under the hijab—tightening the wrap, adding pins, tucking the sides—but those damned layers kept escaping. The front strands, cut to her eyes, slid free no matter what. They poked her lashes, slipped into her mouth when she spoke, and blurred her vision while writing.

She felt like a mess.

By lunchtime, she barely touched her food, her fingers busy adjusting and re-adjusting.

The group had grown quieter around her. They watched her with a mixture of guilt and unease—especially Hina, who now sat beside her but barely said a word.

As students began packing up, the courtyard buzzed once more. Sana stood, adjusting her bag strap, tugging her scarf down one last time in frustration.

Then she turned to the group.

“Are you going to do it?”

The girls blinked.

“Do what?” Zoya asked cautiously.

Sana looked directly at Zara. Her eyes were steady. Her voice soft, but sharp.

“Shave my head. Like you said.”

Fariha choked on a breath. “Sana—wait, no—we didn’t mean—”

But Zara’s face lit up—part daring, part shocked that this had gone this far.

She smirked. “If you’re serious, I’d be more than happy to. We can go now, to my place.”

The other girls froze.

Zoya elbowed her hard. “Zara, stop.”

But Sana didn’t back down.

She nodded slowly. “Fine. Let’s go.”

There was a beat of silence. Awkward. Dense. The kind that pressed on the chest.

Before anyone could gather the words to respond, Sana turned on her heel and started walking purposefully toward the college gates.

Zara hesitated for a second—then followed, her pace matching Sana’s, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Whether it was out of confidence or uncertainty, no one could tell.

The rest of the group trailed behind, steps hesitant, eyes darting between each other. They leaned in close, whispering just low enough that Sana couldn’t hear.

“Are we seriously letting this happen?”

“She’s bluffing… she has to be.”

“But what if she’s not?”

“Zara’s not going to actually do it… right?”

“She might…”

They reached Zara’s house faster than expected, the walk unusually silent. No one dared joke anymore. No one laughed. The only sounds were the rhythmic thuds of footsteps and the nervous breaths shared between them.

Inside, Zara pushed the door open and gestured for them to enter.

“Come on up,” she said casually, trying to shake off the unease.

They climbed the stairs to her room—an airy space with posters half-hanging off the wall, a wide desk scattered with notebooks, and a vanity with a tall mirror, under which sat a folded towel and… a set of clippers, coiled and tucked into their charger.

Once inside, Zara turned toward the group, still keeping that performance smile on.

“Anyone want something? Water? Juice? Snack?”

Silence.

The air hung thick with tension. No one answered. Not because they weren’t thirsty, but because they were too afraid of what might happen next.

Sana stood near the center of the room, slowly undoing the pins from her hijab. One by one. Her layered hair began to slip free again, framing her face like scattered ink strokes.

She didn’t speak.

No one did.

Even Zara’s playful edge had dulled, her gaze flickering nervously toward the clippers, then to Sana.

And in that stillness, it became clear—

The prank had crossed into something else entirely.

Zara motioned toward the vanity chair with a gentle but firm hand.
“Sana, sit.”

Without a word, Sana moved forward and lowered herself onto the chair, her layered hair already misbehaving—some strands slipping down her cheeks, others resting awkwardly at her shoulders. Her eyes stayed on the mirror, wide but unblinking, reflecting not only her own unease, but the ghostly silence of the others behind her.

Zara walked out of the room, her footsteps light but deliberate.

A beat passed. No one spoke.

Then the door opened again.

She returned—with a folded sheet draped over her arm, a small white towel, a safety razor in one hand, and in the other: a pair of humming clippers and a can of shaving cream.

She laid each item down on the dressing table, one after another with a sense of precision that unnerved the rest of the girls.

Finally, she reached up to her own hijab.
No hesitation. No drama. Just a simple, practiced movement.

And then… she peeled it off.

Gasps broke out. Audible. Collective. Sharper than anything else in the room.

Zara’s head was completely smooth. No stubble, no trace of shadow—just bare skin that gleamed faintly under the ceiling light. It looked… real. Startlingly real.

A ripple of disbelief moved through the group, except for Sana, who blinked once and then stared straight ahead, unmoving.

Zara smiled softly, running a palm over her head like it was second nature.
“You get used to it,” she said, her tone eerily casual. “Feels lighter… cleaner. Especially under a hijab—it doesn’t tug anymore. No sweaty scalp. No bad hair days.”

The others exchanged glances—some wide-eyed, some pale.

But Zara’s attention was locked on one person only.

She turned to Sana, leaned forward just a little, and asked in a low, measured voice.
“You’re sure you want this?”

Sana didn’t speak. Her lips trembled. Tears welled up in her eyes but didn’t fall. She gave the smallest nod—once, then again, like she was holding in a scream behind her throat.

Zara smiled, but it wasn’t playful this time. It was firm. Quietly dominant.

“Okay then.”

She picked up the sheet and whipped it open with a practiced motion, wrapping it around Sana like a barber would—only tighter. Much tighter. Tugging it behind her neck and tying it so snug that Sana flinched slightly.

“I’m tying it extra tight,” Zara said, her voice now more commanding than before. “So none of your hair sneaks under it. We don’t want itchy little strands hiding in your collar, do we?”

No reply.

Zara plugged in the clippers. A sharp buzz filled the room, slicing the silence like a blade.

She stepped behind Sana, resting her hand on the crown of Sana’s head, gently pressing it forward. The hum of the clippers hovered just above her scalp, right at the front hairline.

She lowered her mouth close to Sana’s ear and said—softly but firmly—
“Last chance, Sana. Are you sure?”

But it wasn’t the voice of a friend anymore.
It was the voice of someone in control. A test. A dare. A command.

Sana swallowed. Her hands curled into fists under the cape. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek.

But her lips parted and whispered just one word—
“…Yes.”

Zara’s eyes narrowed slightly. She smiled.

Then, slowly, she pushed the clippers forward.

With a harsh snap and a low rumble, the blades dug in—clipping straight through the first row of Sana’s dark, shoulder-length hair. Thick, coarse locks fell forward, tumbling over the cape and dropping silently onto the floor.

The room had never been quieter.

Zara stood behind Sana, the quiet electric buzz of the clippers filling the heavy silence in the room. The rest of the girls lingered behind, packed into the room like ghosts—none daring to interrupt or intervene now. No one expected it to go this far. And yet here they were.

Sana sat still, stiff as stone, hands trembling slightly beneath the tightly tied cape. Her hijab lay folded to the side, and her shoulder-length hair—styled with waves from the salon just the night before—flowed down from the sides and back, still fresh, glossy, and soft. A few short layers curled naturally near her cheeks, refusing to stay tucked behind her ears. She didn’t dare move her eyes from the mirror, barely breathing. Tears hovered at the edge of her lashes, but she blinked them away. Pride, shame, confusion—all blending into numbness.

Zara leaned in, her tone suddenly serious, laced with a strange, firm tenderness. “One last time, Sana. Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

A moment passed.

Sana’s throat was dry. She gave the tiniest nod. Her voice, when it came, cracked softly. “Do it…”

The clippers hummed louder as Zara shifted them in her grip. She placed her free hand gently—but possessively—on the crown of Sana’s head, tilting it forward with controlled pressure. The cape rustled against Sana’s shoulders as she lowered her chin to her chest. Her back stiffened, her fingers clenched tight under the cloth.

Then came the first pass.

Zara placed the clippers just at the center of Sana’s forehead, a millimeter into her natural hairline. With a slow, deliberate push, she guided them straight back, the metal blades biting cleanly through the thick, dark hair. A clean path of scalp was revealed in the clippers’ wake—pale and soft, untouched by sun or air. It glistened faintly under the overhead light.

Thick locks peeled away and tumbled down the front of the cape, resting against Sana’s chest like broken pieces of her identity. Some strands clung to the corners of her lips. She didn’t flinch. She couldn’t.

The girls behind Zara gasped—barely audible. The weight of what was happening had become real.

Zara didn’t pause. She reset the clippers to the left side of Sana’s head, starting just above the temple this time. With practiced precision, she ran the clippers back again, carving another smooth track. Hair folded and dropped with each motion, caught on the cape, sticking to Sana’s cheeks, slipping down her neck.

Zara worked silently, her face a mask of focus. But her eyes sparkled—there was a strange satisfaction in her gaze. A quiet power.

“I’m going against the grain next,” she murmured, as if she were reading aloud a ritual. “It’ll be cleaner.”

She pressed the clippers in at the back of the head now, gliding them upward from the nape. Each movement exposed more scalp, slowly transforming Sana’s entire crown from a crown of dense waves to a velvety canvas of pale skin, marred only by the faint red trails left by the sharp buzzing steel.

By the time she was done with the initial clipping, Sana was almost unrecognizable. A faint stubble remained, giving her scalp a shadowy texture. Zara ran her fingers slowly over it, feeling for missed patches. The sensation made Sana’s skin crawl—but she didn’t stop her.

Zara grabbed the shaving cream next.

The coolness of the foam shocked Sana when it was lathered thickly over her scalp. Zara’s fingers worked it in with care, kneading across every curve, from crown to temples, behind her ears, down to the nape of her neck. The room smelled faintly of menthol and steel now.

Then came the razor.

The sharp glint of the safety razor caught the light as Zara leaned in close. With slow, long strokes, she began shaving off the stubble. The blade whispered against the skin, leaving gleaming, utterly smooth trails behind. Zara tilted Sana’s head with gentle but unrelenting pressure—like a sculptor working on stone.

Occasionally, she’d wipe the blade clean on a towel. The sound of the metal scraping against cloth echoed in the silent room.

Sana could feel everything. The cold blade. The soft tug of her skin. The air cooling her exposed scalp with every pass. Her lower lip quivered, but she held her tears back. The humiliation wasn’t in the action—it was in the silence. In knowing she did this to herself. In the weight of five pairs of eyes watching her being stripped of what made her feel like herself.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Zara stepped back.

The mirror reflected something that didn’t feel like Sana anymore.

Her scalp was smooth, almost porcelain-like. Her neck looked longer, exposed. Her features stood out sharply now—no hair to soften or frame them. There were faint red lines on her scalp from the blade. Stray hairs clung to her cheeks and lashes. The cape was a graveyard of her former self—thick, wavy strands tangled and lifeless in her lap.

Zara gently unclipped the cape and shook the hair to the floor. A soft cascade like fallen feathers.

“Done,” she whispered, then added with a smirk, “Now you really belong.”

But Sana didn’t smile.

She just sat there—still, hollowed out. The humiliation hadn’t sunk in yet. Not fully. It would later. When she’d try to tie her hijab the next morning. When she’d feel the fabric against bare skin. When she’d see the looks.

And the worst part?

She still didn’t know it had all been a prank.

Zara stepped back, brushing her palms together with a little dramatic flair.

“All done,” she announced, her voice calm—too calm.

Sana remained in the chair, her body curled inward, shoulders trembling faintly under the now-loosened cape. Her hands gripped the armrests like they were the only things keeping her grounded. Her face was streaked with silent tears, and her scalp—bare, shiny, raw—reflected the soft light overhead.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then slowly, almost guiltily, the girls stepped forward one by one.

Hina was the first. Her steps were small, hesitant. She knelt beside Sana and placed her palm gently on her freshly shaved scalp. Her fingers trembled.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t think it would go this far…”

Fariha came next, brushing a stray tear from Sana’s cheek. Her own eyes were glossy. “You didn’t deserve this, Sana. None of this.”

One by one, the others followed, surrounding her, offering small, fragile gestures—hands brushing her back, quiet apologies muttered under their breath. No one met each other’s eyes. The guilt was thick in the room, like smoke.

Sana couldn’t speak.

She was crying now—not loud sobs, but quiet, exhausted weeping. The kind that comes from somewhere deep inside. Her lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but no sound came.

Then, suddenly—

Laughter.

A sharp, cracking, jarring laugh that shattered the silence like glass.

Heads turned.

Zara.

She was standing off to the side, hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking as she burst into a fit of laughter.

“Oh my God!” she gasped between breaths. “She really bought it.”

Everyone froze.

Sana blinked through her tears, confused. “What…?”

With a flourish, Zara reached up—and peeled.

Fingers gripped the edge of her “scalp,” and with a swift tug, the smooth bald head came off in one seamless motion.

It was a cap.

A hyper-realistic, flesh-toned bald cap, perfectly fitted and flawlessly blended. Beneath it, her real hair tumbled down in a neatly tied bun.

The room erupted in a mix of gasps and stunned silence.

“You didn’t actually think we were bald under our hijabs, did you?” Zara said, breathless from laughter, holding the cap up like a trophy. “Oh, Sana… you really went all the way.”

Hina stood frozen, her face pale.

Fariha stepped back in horror. “Zara… what did you do?”

Sana looked at her reflection—at the bare, shining head. Her eyes moved slowly, trembling, to the pile of her own hair on the floor. Reality dawned.

The truth crushed her like a falling wall.

The humiliation, the betrayal—it hit her all at once.

“You lied to me,” she said, barely above a whisper. “All of you…”

No one answered.

Even Zara’s laughter had quieted now.

Sana stood up—unsteady, broken—but tall in spirit. She looked at each of them, one by one, her tears now dry, replaced with something sharper. Something colder.

She walked out of the room without a word, the loose edge of her scarf brushing her bare scalp. No one dared follow.

Only the clump of hair on the floor and the discarded bald cap remained behind—a monument to how far a prank can go before it stops being funny.