Childhood Trauma: The Summer Short Forced Haircut

  

A Girl and Her Hair

The thick, black strands slipped effortlessly between Priya’s fingers as she ran a wooden comb through her long, silky hair. She sat cross-legged on the cool marble floor of her room, humming softly as she carefully braided it into two neat plaits, just as her mother had taught her.

Her hair had always been a source of pride—a crown she never wanted to part with. It was thick, dark, and fell past her waist, swaying gently as she walked.

But deep inside, she knew it wouldn’t last.

Summer was coming.

And summer always meant one thing.

A haircut.

The Unwanted Tradition

Every year, as the hot months approached, Priya’s mother would make the same announcement:

"It’s too hot, beta. Long hair is a nuisance in the summer. We’ll get it cut short."

And every year, Priya would protest.

"Amma, please! Just a trim! I promise I’ll tie it up!"

But her pleas always went unheard. Her mother’s decision was final.

"It’s not just about the heat," her mother would say, pulling Priya’s hair into a tight ponytail. "You sweat too much, and your scalp gets itchy. Short hair is easier."

Priya hated it.

She didn’t mind tying her hair up. She didn’t mind the heat. But she couldn’t bear the thought of losing her long, beautiful locks. It wasn’t just hair to her—it was a part of who she was.

And yet, no matter how hard she protested, she always found herself sitting in that dreaded salon chair.

The Salon of Nightmares

That afternoon, her mother grabbed her hand and led her to the small neighborhood salon. The bell jingled as they stepped inside, the cool air-conditioning sending a shiver down Priya’s spine.

She had been here before. Too many times.

The familiar scent of hair sprays and oils filled the air. Women sat in chairs, their hair wrapped in towels or curled into rollers. The sound of blow dryers and scissors clicking made her heart pound.

The barber, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache, looked up and smiled.

"Ah, Priya! Summer cut again?"

She clenched her fists. "Just a trim, please," she whispered, barely audible.

Her mother laughed. "No trim! Short. Like always."

Priya’s stomach twisted into knots as she was ushered into the chair. The barber draped a heavy black cape around her shoulders, tucking it in tightly around her neck. She felt trapped.

The mirror in front of her reflected her worried face. Her long, jet-black hair cascaded over the cape, resting against the chair’s back.

Her mother stood beside her, arms crossed, watching intently.

"Cut it short," she instructed.

Priya wanted to scream.

The First Cut

The barber picked up his comb and ran it through her hair, pulling it taut. The cool plastic teeth scraped against her scalp as he worked through the strands.

"Such thick hair," he commented. "You’ll feel much lighter after this."

Priya didn’t want to feel lighter. She wanted to run.

But it was too late.

She watched in horror as he gathered her hair into a high ponytail. He held it firmly at the base, twisting it slightly. Then, with his other hand, he picked up a large pair of silver scissors.

Chhkk… chhkk… chhkk…

The blades sliced through her thick hair with slow, deliberate snips. She could feel each strand being severed, the familiar weight disappearing in mere seconds.

The ponytail dangled in the barber’s hand before he casually tossed it onto the counter.

Priya swallowed hard.

It was gone.

Her long, beautiful hair was gone.

She felt the short ends brush against her nape, uneven and rough. Tears burned in her eyes, but she forced them back. Crying wouldn’t bring her hair back.

The barber continued his work, combing through the remaining strands, shaping the short bob into something neater. He lifted sections, snipping at angles, his scissors clicking rhythmically.

With every cut, more of her hair fell in soft clumps onto the floor.

Priya stared at them, feeling an unbearable sense of loss.

The Final Touches

The barber switched to smaller scissors, trimming the edges with precise movements. He snipped the hair around her ears, shaping them carefully.

Then, he picked up a spray bottle and misted her hair with water, the cool droplets sending a shiver down her spine.

"Head down," he instructed.

Priya hesitated, but a firm press on her shoulder made her obey.

She lowered her head, staring at the fallen strands around her feet.

The sound of the scissors was sharper now, slicing through the damp ends with a crisp snip snip snip.

Finally, the barber stepped back. He picked up a brush, dusted the tiny hairs off her neck, and turned the chair toward the mirror.

"Done!" he announced cheerfully.

Priya barely recognized the girl staring back at her.

Her long, flowing hair was now a short, blunt bob, barely reaching her chin. It framed her round face awkwardly, making her cheeks look fuller.

She reached up, touching the unfamiliar length. It was too short. It wasn’t her.

Her mother smiled approvingly. "Much better. Now you look fresh and neat."

Priya felt anything but fresh.

She felt exposed.

Vulnerable.

The Aftermath

The walk home was quiet. Her mother seemed satisfied, but Priya couldn’t shake the lump in her throat.

As soon as they reached home, she ran to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She stared at her reflection, blinking back tears.

Her hands trembled as she picked up the comb and ran it through her short strands. It didn’t feel the same. The silky weight was gone. The ends flipped awkwardly at the sides, refusing to stay in place.

She swallowed hard, trying to hold back her sobs.

It was just hair.

It would grow back.

But the sadness didn’t fade.

Schoolyard Humiliation

The next day, as she walked into school, the whispers started.

"Priya got another summer cut."

"She looks like a boy!"

"Why do they always chop her hair so short?"

She clenched her fists, keeping her head down. She wished she could disappear.

By lunchtime, she had had enough. She ran to the restroom, locking herself inside a stall. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry.

She hated this.

She hated feeling powerless.

She hated that every summer, she had to go through this.

A Silent Promise

That night, as she lay in bed, she stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

Her fingers played with the short ends of her hair, twisting them absentmindedly.

And for the first time, an unfamiliar feeling crept into her heart.

It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t anger.

It was determination.

She didn’t know when. She didn’t know how.

But one day, she would decide.

No one else.

She would choose when and how she cut her hair.

Until then, she would wait.

And when the time came, she would take control.

Even if it meant picking up the scissors herself.

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To Be Continued…

(Next: Part 2 – Self Boycut in the Ba

throom)

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This version expands Priya’s emotions, the sensory details of the haircut, and her transformation from helplessness to quiet determination. Let me know if you'd like any refinements!