My Lockdown Headshave by Agastya Shah

---

I was just 11 years old when my dad first forced me to shave my head. It was during quarantine when everything outside had shut down, including barbershops. My hair had grown long, unruly, and wild. I liked it that way. But Dad? He hated it.

One morning, he glanced at me with visible disgust and said,

"Agastya, your hair is ridiculously long. It’s time we cut it."

I protested, "Dad, the barbers are closed. I don’t think I can get a haircut right now."

He smirked and replied,

> "Who said anything about the barber? I’ve got my trimmer right here. I’ll just give you a little trim. You look disgustingly shabby, okay?"

I kept protesting, hoping he’d back off. Instead, he leaned in closer and said,

> "Okay, fine. But don’t make me force you."

The next morning, as I stood in front of the mirror combing my hair, Dad walked by. He gave me a cold look and said,

> "That mop on your head still looks terrible. Last warning—get a haircut before I take matters into my own hands."

Panicked and tired of the threats, I gave in.
"Alright, Dad. Fine. You can cut it. Just… not too short, okay?"

He smiled.

> "Good boy. You’re finally understanding. That shabby look won’t get you anywhere in life."

I hesitantly asked, "What haircut am I getting?"

Dad shrugged.

> "I’m not an expert, so I’d prefer to just shave it all off. But fine—let’s go with a military cut."

I begged him not to go that short.
"Dad, please. Not that short. Anything but that."

He suddenly snapped.

> "You don’t tell me what to do! Be happy I’m not shaving your head!"

With that, he ordered me into his room.

The floor was covered in newspaper. He pointed and said,

> "Strip."

I hesitated.

> "Dad… why?"

He barked,

> "Because I said so! I don’t want hair all over your clothes! Now do it!"

Trembling, I stripped completely, knowing he was already angry. He wrapped an old bedsheet around my bare body like a cape. Then, without another word, he went into the bathroom and returned with his beard trimmer and a dull pair of scissors.

He loomed over me.

> "Don’t move. Don’t speak."

He roughly combed my hair forward. Then—
SNIP. SNIP. SNIP.
His scissors cut a harsh line across my forehead. Half of my hair dropped to the floor in seconds.

"DAD! That’s too much! That’s not just a trim!" I cried.

> *SLAP.*
> "SHUT UP!" he yelled.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked down at the fallen clumps of my hair.

Then he began snipping randomly—uneven, jagged, cruel cuts.
**Snip. Snip. Snip.**
Hair rained down on my shoulders. I was a mess.

He smirked, picked up the trimmer, and removed the guard.

> "Look down," he commanded.

Then came the buzz.
**BUZZZZ.**
He drove the blade straight into the back of my scalp. Hair came off in thick chunks. No guards. No hesitation.

Next, he carved a bald line across my head and started going over every inch with the same naked blade. Suddenly—the trimmer died.

Without a word, he left the room and returned with his other trimmer—the one he used for the closest beard shaves. This one was even more aggressive. He pressed it hard against my scalp and scraped every remaining strand away.

By the time he finished, I was completely bald.

He yanked the sheet off me, pointed to the bathroom, and said coldly,

> "Go shower."

Then he left.

I sat there, surrounded by what used to be my hair. I broke down. The tears came freely now.

Eventually, I forced myself to get up and walk to the shower. I turned on the water and let it run down my freshly shaven scalp. For the first time in hours, I felt a strange, fleeting sense of calm.

But the memory? That stayed.
And guess what?
He shaved my head again later that quarantine.
Stay tuned… that story’s even worse

---