my foolish haircut (rewritten) part 1 by sanjay_

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"You ready yet, Sanjay ?" my mom called out from the kitchen, her voice carrying a hint of impatience.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to calm my racing heart. Staring into the mirror, I contemplated the unruly mop of hair that had grown out of control over the past few months.

"Coming, Mom!" I shouted back, trying to mask the trepidation in my voice. I'd been putting off this trip to the barbershop for weeks, dreading the moment when the cold steel of the clippers would touch my scalp.

My reflection stared back at me, a wild tangle of dark hair framing my face. It had been a comforting shield from the world outside, growing longer and more unruly with each passing day. But now, the time had come to tame the beast. With a resigned sigh, I turned away from the mirror and headed towards the kitchen.

Mom was already at the door, purse in hand, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You're going to look so much better, Sanjay," she assured me, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of a mission about to be accomplished.

The barbershop was a short walk away, nestled between a bustling convenience store and a quiet bookstore.Two months ago, my last visit to there had been ended in a badly surprise haircut.

As we approached, the familiar scent of hair gel and shaving cream filled the air, bringing with it a mix of nostalgia and anxiety. The bell on the door jingled merrily as we stepped inside, and the barber, Mr. Patel, cutting hair of an old men, glanced up, his eyes lighting up in recognition. "Ah, Sanjay!" he boomed, setting down his clippers with a clatter. "Back for another transformation, are we?"

Mom and I sat on the plastic waiting chairs, trying to ignore the butterflies doing somersaults in my stomach. The walls were plastered with posters of various hairstyles, each more extreme than the last. My gaze flitted on a new poster of a boy with a clean bowl cut looking similar to the one I'd had last time.

"What do you think, Sanjay?" Mom whispered, nudging me playfully. "Should we go for something different today?"

I swallowed hard, the memory of the last disaster still fresh in my mind. "No, Mom," I murmured. "I just want it short. Nothing fancy."

Mom pursed her lips, a look of mild disappointment flickering across her face. She knew how much I hated drawing attention to myself, especially after the last incident where the entire school had laughed at my botched bowl cut.

"Alright, sweetheart," she said gently, patting my shoulder. "But remember, it's just hair. It'll grow back."

As the old man's chair spun around, my memory of the last time I sat here played out in my mind like a tragic montage.

"Sanjay, come over here," Mr. Patel called out, gesturing to the chair with a flourish. I hesitantly took my seat, feeling the cool leather stick to the back of my neck as I tried to shrink into myself. He threw a clean white cape around me, snapping it tight with the precision of a seasoned magician.

Mom took a step back, her eyes filled with the hope that this time would be different. She knew how self-conscious I was about my appearance. The barbershop was a place of both comfort and dread for me. It was where I had gotten my first head shave as a toddler, sitting proudly on my father's lap. Now, it was a place of potential humiliation, a place where one wrong snip could send me spiraling into a sea of mockery and ridicule.

Mr. Patel picked up his scissors and comb, eyeing my hair with the scrutiny of a sculptor sizing up a block of marble. His mustache twitched as he considered his approach. "So, what'll it be today?" he asked, his voice booming through the small space.

"Just a simple mushroom cut, please," mom replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Keep it short and shave it under the bowl line, okay?"

Mr. Patel nodded, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. I could see the understanding in them.

My heart sank hearing my mom's words.It was 2012, and the mushroom cut was already on its way out, replaced by the sleek undercuts and styled fades that the cool kids at school were sporting. But Mom didn't know that. She was stuck in the '90s, when my dad was still around and when she had more say in my hair choices.

The barber began snipping away, his scissors making sharp, rhythmic sounds as they glided through my thick hair. With each snip, I felt a piece of my identity falling to the floor, leaving behind a trail of dark strands. The tension in the room was palpable, only broken by the occasional small talk between Mom and Mr. Patel.

I sat there, eyes fixed on the mirror, watching the transformation unfold. The hair grew shorter and shorter, the sides and back tapering down to a length that was almost unbearable. Every few minutes, Mr. Patel would stop and ask, "Is this good, Sanjay?" and I would nod, my voice too tight to speak.

The buzz of the clippers grew louder as he switched to a shorter guard. I felt them graze the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. The last time I had felt them so close was when the barber had gone rogue with the bowl cut, leaving my neck looking like a hacked-up lawn.

Mr. Patel then paused, his scissors hovering in the air. He reached for the shaving cream and a straight razor, the instrument of my impending doom. He lathered the stubbles remains under the bowl line with a gentle but firm hand, the cream transforming my hair into a white, frothy landscape.

The straight razor glinted in the fluorescent light as he angled it just right. I could feel the coldness of the metal against my skin as he began to shave, the sound of the blade scraping against my scalp sending a fresh wave of anxiety through me. The sensation was both terrifying and exhilarating, a strange mix of vulnerability and relief.

With each stroke, the unwanted hair disappeared, leaving behind a smooth, bare patch of skin. The buzz of the clippers had been replaced by the rhythmic scrape of the razor, a sound that seemed to echo in the quiet of the barbershop. Mr. Patel's eyes remained focused on his work, his hands moving with a confidence that I hadn't seen in months.

As the minutes ticked by, the chair spun around so Mr. Patel could show off his progress. The floor was littered with hair, a stark contrast to the gleaming chrome of the barber tools. My heart raced, anticipating the moment when I could finally see the finished product.

The final snip was like a gunshot in the silence, echoing through the room. Mr. Patel stepped back and spun the chair to face the mirror. I took a deep breath and looked up.

The reflection staring back at me was unrecognizable. Gone was the shaggy mop that had shielded me from the world. In its place was a neatly trimmed mushroom cut, the edges sharper than I had ever seen on my head. The shave under the bowl line was impeccable, a stark white line that stood out against the rest of my hair. I reached up tentatively, feeling the bare skin, trying to reconcile this new image with the one I had grown accustomed to over the past few months.

Mom's eyes were wide, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, Sanjay," she breathed. "You look..." she trailed off, searching for the right words. "You look... so different."

I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. The haircut was a carbon copy of the one that had earned me weeks of teasing and whispers behind my back. The same bowl-like shape that had made me the laughing stock of the school stared back at me from the mirror, as if mocking my hopes for a fresh start.

Mom's expression was a mix of pride and concern, as if she hadn't quite realized the weight of her words when she'd described the cut she wanted. She paid Mr. Patel, her eyes not meeting mine as she handed him the cash. "Thank you," she said, her voice tight. "It looks wonderful."

The walk home was a blur of avoiding eye contact and hunching my shoulders, hoping that the cap I had hastily grabbed from the counter would shield me from the world. But the cool breeze found its way under the fabric, whispering against my freshly shaved neck, a constant reminder of my new look.

Mom's chatter floated around me like a cheerful bubble, filled with excitement about the new me she envisioned. She talked about the compliments I would get, how much cooler and more mature I would look. Yet, all I could think about was the taunts and laughter that awaited me at school tomorrow.

i came to reality as the barber patel finished with his customer on chair and calls me. My heart was racing like a wild horse in a cage, each beat pounding in my ears louder than the clippers that had been buzzing in the background. The plastic chair squeaked as I slid out of it, my legs feeling like they were made of jelly. The floor felt cold under my feet as I took the few steps towards the chair, the universe seemingly slowing down around me.

Mom's words echoed in my mind as I sat down, the cape wrapping around my neck like a noose. "just shave it all off down to skin," she had said, with an encouraging smile

to be continued....

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