Title: A Cut Above the Rest

  The ceiling fan creaked in slow circles, stirring the heavy May air but offering little real relief. It was 8 PM, sun has gone down, yet the heat remains. Anjali stepped into the living room of their second-floor rented apartment and dropped her office bag with a thud. Her dupatta was damp with sweat, her kurti clinging to her back, and her long black hair—usually her pride—hung like a thick curtain, half-drenched, hopelessly tangled.

  She kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the cool tiled floor with a groan.

  From the far end of the room, Ritik looked up. He was cross-legged on the floor, a half-eaten plate of maggi beside him and his laptop open to a design project. “Wow,” he said, grinning, “you look like a soldier returning from war.”

  “I feel like I just survived a natural disaster,” Anjali muttered. “No AC in the office today. Full meetings. Full chaos. And this hair—ugh—it’s like carrying a wet towel on my head.”

  Ritik chuckled. “I got back two hours ago. Even the college canteen had better airflow than this.”

  Anjali pulled at her hair, frustrated. “It’s like a burden. I’ve been tying it up and fixing it all day, and it just keeps falling loose, getting in my face… it’s too much.”

  She ran her fingers through the tangled mess and sighed deeply. “I swear, I’m just going to chop it all off.”

  “You’ve been saying that since Holi,” Ritik replied, closing his laptop. “You get this dramatic every summer.”

  She sat up a little and scowled. “I mean it this time. I’m tired of looking like a shampoo ad and feeling like a furnace.”

  “Then do it,” Ritik said with a shrug.

  Anjali paused, looking at her reflection in the glass. She ran a hand through her hair again, clearly annoyed. “I mean, I’ve been saying this for weeks, but I’m not sure if I actually have the guts to do it.”

  Ritik grinned mischievously. “Better yet—let me cut it.”

  Anjali turned toward him slowly. “Let you?”

  He grinned, unbothered. “Come on. I gave Karthik a decent trim during lockdown. He didn’t sue me or anything.”

  “You also gave him a buzzcut.”

  “Exactly. Efficient. Low-maintenance. Revolutionary.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “Please. I have to go to work on Monday, not a military camp.”

  “Okay, okay. Not a buzzcut. But maybe shoulder length? Fresh. Cooler. Lighter.”

  Anjali thought about it. For months she’d been stuck in a cycle of tying, untangling, oiling, combing. The length had become more of a chore than a choice. Still, the idea of Ritik cutting it? It was ridiculous.

  And yet…

  She glanced at him. He was focused now, actually serious. There was no teasing in his voice. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

  “You’re not using kitchen scissors,” she said, sitting up straighter.

  “I’ve got my fabric shears from the design lab. Sharp as hell.”

  “Okay,” she said, finally, but with a frown, “but let’s not go too short. I’m thinking... maybe mid-back? That way, I’ll still have some length to work with, but it won’t be so heavy.”

  Ritik shook his head, completely unimpressed. “Mid-back? That’s still a lot of hair to deal with. You’ve been complaining about how it tangles and sticks to your neck all day. I say we go shorter—shoulder length. That’s the sweet spot.”

  Anjali ran a hand through her hair, clearly unconvinced. “Shoulder length? Are you serious? That’s barely long enough to tie up if I need it. I need a little more flexibility.”

  “You’ve had ‘flexibility’ for years,” Ritik said. “And you’re still miserable every summer.”

  Anjali folded her arms. “It’s not just about the heat. This hair… it’s been with me through everything. School. College. That internship where no one knew my name but called me ‘the girl with the hair.’” She gave a dry laugh. “It became a personality trait before I even realized it.”

  Ritik’s voice dropped. “I get it. Remember when I used to wear that ugly denim jacket everywhere? Even in April?”

  Anjali blinked, surprised. “That thing? You said it was your ‘creative armor.’”

  “Yeah,” he said, almost sheepish. “But really, I wore it because I didn’t know who I was without it. It made me feel like I had a role, even if I was drowning inside.” He paused, eyes meeting hers. “Then one day I left it on a bus. Freaked out for a week. Then I forgot about it. Turns out, I didn’t need it. Just needed to stop hiding.”

  Anjali was quiet.

  “You’re not throwing anything away,” he added softly. “You’re just making space.”

  A beat passed.

  “Shoulder length, huh?” she said, her voice quieter now.

  He smiled. “Revolutionary. But only if you’re ready to be seen without the armor.”

  Anjali bit her lip, still reluctant. “But it’s my hair, Ritik. It’s a part of me! I’ve always had it long. I don’t know if I can just... throw that away for something so short.”

  Ritik shrugged, undaunted by her protests. “It’s not about throwing anything away. It’s about making your life easier. You’ve said a thousand times you’re tired of it. This is your chance for a fresh start. Plus, shorter hair is a whole new vibe. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

  She hesitated, glancing at herself in the mirror. “I mean, it would be less work...”

  “That’s the idea,” he said, now almost pleading. “Less work, more freedom. Just trust me. Shoulder length. You won’t regret it.”

  Anjali let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. Shoulder length. But no shorter, okay? I’m drawing the line there.”

  Ritik smirked triumphantly. “Deal.”

  Ritik jumped up, grabbing the shears and a towel from the cupboard. He draped the towel over her shoulders with a soft flick, the fabric cool against her skin. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the fan as he stepped behind her, fingers gently parting her hair into sections.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  With a steady hand, he began to clip each section, the shears making a soft, deliberate kachchhch with every cut. The sound echoed through the room—sharp, almost final—like the first strike of a match. A long lock of her hair fell away, cascading down to the floor in a soft heap.

  Chchchchch, the scissors sliced through another strand, leaving behind a trail of hair in their wake. Anjali couldn’t help but feel the tug at the roots as the thick strands were severed, each snip sending a shiver down her spine. Another kachchhch, and another lock of hair hit the floor with a gentle thud, joining the growing pile beneath her chair. It was as if each cut were pulling a little more weight off her shoulders, though the sound of the shears snapping through her hair felt almost surreal.

  The rhythm of the snips continued, chchch-chch, one after another, as Ritik worked with focus and precision. Each section of hair fell away in neat, clean lines, some curling slightly as they hit the floor, others tumbling down in long waves. The dull kachchhch of the shears grew louder, and Anjali could feel the lightness spreading through her head, the weight she’d been carrying for so long slowly vanishing with every cut.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ritik stepped back, his eyes scanning the final product. Her hair, once long and heavy, now lay in scattered sections at her feet. The light breeze in the room brushed coolly against the exposed nape of her neck, and for the first time in ages, Anjali felt the air reach her skin.

  “I forgot how heavy it was,” Anjali murmured, touching the back of her neck.

  “You’ll thank me when you sleep tonight,” Ritik said, concentrating. “You already look different. Lighter. Sharper.”

  She glanced at the hall mirror. The new length framed her face in a way she didn’t expect—her jawline more defined, her eyes somehow more noticeable.

  Ritik stepped back, resting the scissors against his palm as he studied her freshly trimmed silhouette. His brows furrowed—not in dissatisfaction, but in thought. He tilted his head slightly, eyes tracing the new length, then flicking toward her face, as if measuring something unseen.

  “What if,” he said slowly, almost testing the words, “we went even shorter?”

  Anjali turned her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Shorter how?”

  He hesitated for half a beat. “Like… boycut short.”

  There was a pause—just long enough to be uncomfortable. Anjali blinked, then let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’ve lost it.”

  “I’m serious,” Ritik said, a strange mix of excitement and mischief in his voice. “It would look bold. Clean. You wouldn’t have to touch a comb for weeks. Imagine—no more knots, no damp neck in the summer, no endless buns.”

  She looked at him like he’d just suggested she shave her eyebrows. “You want me to look like you?”

  He grinned. “Hey, I carry it well.”

  She rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker—barely a flicker—of curiosity in her expression. “That’s not a haircut. That’s a life decision.”

  “Exactly,” Ritik said, softly now. “Maybe it’s time.”

  “I’m serious. You’d rock it. You’ve got the face for it. It’s bold. And let’s be real—you’ve already gone halfway.”

  Anjali stared at her reflection, tilting her head slowly. The shoulder-length cut was neat, lighter—but it wasn’t just her hair that had changed. Something inside her had cracked open, something she usually kept wrapped up in routine and hesitation. The version of herself who always played it safe… felt a little distant now.

  She ran a hand through the unfamiliar shape, fingers brushing her neck. The air felt cooler, the edges sharper. A small, tired part of her—the part that had weathered heat, noise, tangled mornings, and quiet frustrations—leaned forward inside her.

  “You really think it’ll suit me?” she asked, not meeting his eyes.

  “I know it will,” Ritik said gently. “But only if you want it. I’m not pushing.”

  There was a pause. Not just silence, but stillness. Like the breath before a leap.

  Then, to his surprise, she nodded once. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

  Her voice was even, but her heart thudded. The words felt too bold to be hers, but she didn’t take them back. She didn’t want to.

  Ritik blinked, startled. “Wait, seriously? Like… right now?”

  “Yes. Before I change my mind.”

  He retrieved his old trimmer set—a dusty, well-worn piece from his hostel days, still reliable despite its scratches. As he flicked it on, the soft bzzzzzz filled the room like a warning and a promise. The vibration hummed in his palm, subtle but alive. Anjali flinched slightly at the sound, her breath catching, her body going still. This wasn’t just a haircut anymore.

  He gently tilted her head and placed the buzzing trimmer just behind her ear.

  Bzzzzkkchchhh.

  The first swipe carved a clean strip through the thick hair, revealing pale skin beneath. A heavy lock broke free, spiraled in the air, and fluttered down like a slow-motion leaf before landing on the towel. Anjali saw it fall in her lap—dense, familiar, no longer part of her.

  The second pass came more confidently. BZZZCHCHHH. The trimmed strands shot outward this time, fine pieces catching the light as they scattered into the air, sticking to her arms, her cheeks, her collarbone. Some clung to the towel like feathers after a pillow fight; others flew briefly, as if unwilling to land.

  The trimmer worked steadily now—bzzzz, chchchkk, buzz-chkchh—the room filling with the rhythmic hum and the occasional snap of blades catching an especially thick patch. Hair rained down in tufts and wisps, forming a dark halo around her on the floor. The air smelled faintly of warm metal and something almost clean, like change.

  Ritik moved carefully, guiding her head with a light touch, brushing stray hairs from her face. The fine stubble on her scalp began to emerge, soft and uniform, like velvet under his fingers. Tiny fragments clung to her forehead, to the curve of her ear, to the hollow of her throat. Anjali sat silent, unmoving, as though in a trance.

  When he finally switched the trimmer off, the buzz faded into a sudden, deep silence. The air felt still, like after a storm. Around her feet lay a sea of dark hair—thick, tangled, and weightless now. She reached up, cautiously, brushing her fingers across the unfamiliar shape of her own head.

  And then she exhaled—long and quiet—as if she’d been holding her breath for years.

  She ran her hand over her newly cropped hair, feeling the breeze on her neck for the first time in years. The mirror showed someone confident. Someone who’d stopped waiting for permission.

  When he finally switched the trimmer off, the buzz faded into a sudden, deep silence. The air felt charged, like the moment after a downpour. Around her feet lay a sea of dark hair—thick, tangled, and suddenly weightless. She didn’t speak at first. Just stared down at the floor, then slowly raised a hand to her head.

  Her fingertips brushed the soft, short stubble at the back—foreign, bristly, almost tender. She moved her hand over it again, slower this time, eyes wide with disbelief and something close to wonder. The sensation was strange. Bare. But not wrong.

  Ritik stood a step back, holding the trimmer loosely at his side. For the first time that evening, he looked unsure. “You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

  Anjali didn’t answer right away. She glanced at the mirror across the room, then back at him. Her lips parted, but instead of speaking, she let out a short breath—half a laugh, half a release.

  “I think…” she said finally, her voice low, “I don’t hate it.”

  Ritik grinned, relief washing over his face. “That’s the most dramatic compliment I’ve ever heard.”

  Anjali chuckled softly. She reached down and shook the towel off her shoulders, watching the last bits of hair drift to the ground. “It’s weird. I feel like I should be freaking out more.”

  “You still might,” he said, tossing her a clean shirt from the laundry basket. “Wait till you wake up tomorrow and catch your reflection in the toaster.”

  They both laughed, the tension in the room thinning like steam. Outside, the evening had grown quieter. The apartment felt still, but not empty—more like the quiet that comes after something real.

  Anjali looked down once more at the scattered locks on the floor, then up at Ritik.“Thanks,” she said quietly.

  He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded—not with his usual grin, but something softer. “You did the hard part.”

  She reached up again, fingertips brushing the soft, textured stubble on her head like she was still trying to believe it was hers. “I don’t know if I feel brave or just… emptied out.”

  “Sometimes they’re the same thing,” Ritik said, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll know tomorrow.”

  They stood there in the stillness of the room, the ceiling fan humming above, a gentle breeze brushing her neck for the first time in ages. Outside, the sound of a dog barking faintly and a scooter passing by seemed distant, like another world entirely.

  Anjali smiled—a small, real smile. “Feels like I can hear the air.”

  He chuckled under his breath, stepping past her to sweep up the pile of hair. “Look at that. She’s poetic now.”

  Anjali didn’t answer. She just watched the hair being gathered up, lighter in the chest than she’d felt all week. Maybe not everything had to be held onto forever. Maybe, some things—like hair, like heat, like hesitation—were meant to be let go.