Lockdown Headshave by aryan agrawal

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The lockdown had dragged on for weeks, and I could feel my dad’s patience wearing thin. My hair had grown wild, and he was determined to do something about it. One sunny afternoon, he barged into the living room, a trimmer in hand—his trusty beard trimmer. "Aryan, enough is enough. You’re getting a haircut today," he declared, his tone leaving no room for debate.

"Dad, please! That’s for your beard! I can wait a little longer!" I pleaded, anxiety bubbling up. But he was already dragging me to the front yard, the sun shining down like a spotlight on my impending doom.

I reluctantly sat on a stool, feeling exposed as he switched on the trimmer. The buzzing sound filled the air, and I watched as he squinted at my hair, looking completely out of his depth. "Hold still," he ordered, but I could see he had no clue what he was doing.

The first swipe took away a large chunk of hair on one side, and I gasped. "Dad! You can’t just shave my head like you trim your beard!" I protested, panic rising in my chest.

"Just relax! How hard can it be?" he replied, looking more confident than he should have. As he moved to the front, he made a brutal cut that left me with a crooked line across my forehead.

"What are you doing?" I shouted, flailing a bit. "You’re turning me into a modern art exhibit!"

"Just sit still!" he snapped, but the more he tried to fix it, the worse it got. I could feel my heart racing as the clippers continued their relentless work. "Maybe you should watch a YouTube tutorial or something!" I joked, hoping to lighten the mood.

Just as he was getting to what I thought was a salvageable point, the trimmer sputtered and died. "Are you kidding me?" he exclaimed, shaking it as if that would magically fix it. I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe I could escape this disaster!

But my dad’s face turned serious. "Great. Just great! Now you’re stuck with this half-shaved head until it recharges."

"Dad, no! I can’t go out like this!" I pleaded, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. But he crossed his arms, a stern look on his face. "You’re not going back inside until this is done. Embrace it!"

With a heavy sigh, I stepped off the stool, trying to cover the uneven patches with my hands. As I shuffled out into the yard, I could feel the eyes of the neighbors on me. I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

For the next hour, I sat on the porch, acutely aware of how ridiculous I looked. I could hear laughter from the street, and my sister peeked out the window, eyes wide. "You look like a weird egg!" she shouted, giggling uncontrollably. "Should I call you ‘Egghead’ from now on?"

"Very funny," I muttered, wishing I could blend in with the garden gnomes.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the trimmer buzzed back to life. My dad called me over, and I trudged back, feeling a mix of relief and dread. He resumed his work with renewed vigor, but the way he wielded the trimmer was more chaotic than ever.

When he finally stepped back, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. I was completely bald, and I barely recognized myself. "There. Now it’s even," my dad said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

"You look good! We should do this again when your hair grows back," he joked, grinning like he had just won a battle. I rolled my eyes, half-laughing, half-groaning. "Yeah, right. Maybe next time, let’s use a barber."

As I stood there, trying to process everything, I realized I had to find a way to cope with this forced change. The lockdown was tough, my dad was hilariously clueless, but there was humor in the chaos. I walked back inside, determined to adapt—bald head and all—knowing I’d find a way to embrace this new reality, even if it felt like the hardest thing I’d ever faced.

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