There were tiny scratches where the clippers had dragged too hard.
I stared at the woman in the mirror.
Then I started crying.
Not because of the hair.
At least, not entirely.
I cried because I suddenly understood something I had spent three years refusing to see.
They didn’t want a wife.
They wanted an employee.
A cook.
A cleaner.
A nurse.
A bank account.
A woman who worked all day and came home to serve them all night.
And as long as I accepted that role, everyone was happy.
The moment I became successful enough to have choices of my own, I became the problem.
I wiped my face.
Then I picked up the clippers.
I turned them on.
The buzzing filled the bathroom.
I looked at myself one last time.
Then I shaved the rest.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Every remaining strand fell into the sink.
I watched it happen without crying.
