The Shave of Resolve – Part 2 by Sid Mehra

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Aryan lay on his bed, the cool surface of the pillow brushing against his bare scalp. It was a different feeling—oddly soothing. He gently ran his palm over the smooth surface, still adjusting to the absence of his once-glorious hair. After applying the prescribed medicated lotion, he turned off the lights. The faint medicinal scent lingered as he drifted into sleep, his scalp tingling with a calm, cooling sensation.

The next morning, light crept through the half-drawn curtain. Aryan’s small rented room—sparse but functional—was silent. Being away from home while attending engineering college had made him independent, but moments like this reminded him of solitude. With a yawn, he sat up and stared into the mirror opposite his bed.

The reflection was still jarring.

Gone was the Aryan with the voluminous, silky mane. Now, a lean young man with a bare scalp and a short, neatly kept beard stared back. He touched his jaw and thought, Maybe I’ll grow this out a bit. Let it balance things out.

In the shower, water slipped off his head in smooth rivulets—no lathering, no fuss. It was quick, clean, and oddly satisfying. After drying off, he reapplied the medicated lotion and sat at his desk, scrolling through messages. Most were normal chats, but some were still reacting to his bold new look.

That evening, Aryan met up with his two best friends—Rohan and Sameer—for a walk and some street food. As he approached the park, their eyes widened.

"What the hell?" Rohan laughed, staring. "You actually did it?"

Sameer stepped closer, blinking. "Bro, you… actually pull it off! No joke, you look like a different person."

"Bold move," Rohan added, still surprised but smiling. "Respect."

They grabbed momos and lemon soda from a street stall, then walked as the sky turned deep orange. The usual jokes flew, but beneath it all, Aryan felt a subtle pride. His friends didn’t mock him—instead, they seemed impressed.

Later that night, being a Saturday, the three decided on an impromptu party. They stopped by the local liquor store and picked up a bottle of whiskey, then headed to Rohan’s flat. There, with loud music, masala peanuts, and plates of spicy chicken, the celebration began.

One peg turned to two, then three. Laughter echoed through the room. The mood was light but intense.

Around the fourth peg, Aryan’s walls cracked. The alcohol opened floodgates.

"It wasn’t easy," he said, voice slower. "Losing my hair… it felt like losing a part of who I am. I didn’t recognize myself."

Sameer nodded. "But you handled it like a champ."

Rohan leaned in, very drunk now. "You know what?" he slurred. "I’ll show you my support. Watch this!"

He stumbled to his bedroom, emerged with a trimmer, and without warning, ran it through the center of his thick, wavy hair.

Bzzzzzzzzzzz—a strip of baldness down the middle like a runway.

Sameer gasped. "Rohan, are you serious?"

But Rohan was beyond reason. "Brotherhood, baby!" he yelled… and then promptly turned pale, held his stomach, and rushed to the bathroom to vomit. Moments later, he passed out half inside the bathroom, half in the corridor, snoring.

The next morning, a hangover haze hung in the air. Aryan and Sameer stirred late. When they found Rohan still asleep outside the bathroom, they burst into muffled laughter. The strip of baldness was stark and ridiculous.

"Dude…" Sameer chuckled, "He’s going to freak out."

Rohan eventually woke, rubbed his head, and winced at the pain—and then the memory returned.

"No… no no no…" he muttered, running to the mirror.

There it was. A clean runway of baldness down the center, while the rest of his hair stood untouched and wild. He looked like a malfunctioning monk.

Aryan and Sameer were trying not to laugh.

"Leave me," Rohan said grumpily. "Just… go."

They left chuckling, leaving Rohan alone. He stood shirtless in front of the full-length mirror in his room, examining the damage. With a deep sigh, he made up his mind.

"No going back now…"

He picked up the trimmer again. Slowly, he buzzed off the sides, then the back. The strands fell in dark clumps around his feet. The mirror showed a new Rohan taking shape—less wild, more… deliberate.

After finishing the buzzcut, he stared at his reflection again.

What if I go all the way?

He fetched his unused razor and a fresh blade, splashed warm water over his scalp, and applied shaving cream. The thick lather spread over his head with a strange thrill. Gripping the razor tightly, he started with the front.

The blade scraped softly at first—then he nicked himself on the crown.

"Damn…"
Tiny red dots appeared here and there across Rohan’s scalp as the razor made its deliberate path. But he didn’t stop. He exhaled sharply, gripping the razor tighter, trying to stay steady despite his slightly trembling hands.

He started from the front—pushing the razor slowly from the hairline towards the crown. The blade scraped audibly through the thin layer of shaving cream, revealing bare skin beneath. He felt a strange friction, not like shaving his face; the scalp had a different curve, more sensitive, almost tender. Every stroke felt deliberate, surgical.

He paused, wiped the blade clean against the sink, and leaned closer to the mirror. He could see small dark patches where he'd missed hairs—so he re-lathered them and went again, slower this time.

As he moved to the sides, the challenge increased. The area above and behind the ears was particularly tricky—he had to bend his neck awkwardly and switch hands to maintain control. His left hand wasn’t as skilled; the razor slipped once, catching a patch too hard and leaving a fine, linear cut.

"Ow—s**t…" he whispered, wincing.

He ran his fingers gently along the shaved portion. It felt foreign—vulnerable. Like touching skin not meant to be exposed. Yet, there was something cathartic about it.

The bathroom was filled with the mixed scent of shaving cream and his own sweat. The cream had begun to dry and crust slightly in places where he hadn't yet shaved. A few beads of sweat rolled down from his temple and mingled with the foam, dripping down his cheek.

He rinsed his hands and face and continued—now at the back. It was the hardest part. Working without a full view, he had to guess angles by feel and slight turns of the mirror. He kept reapplying cream to ensure smooth gliding, but his grip had loosened slightly from fatigue and moisture. A couple more nicks appeared, faint but stinging.

Minutes stretched longer. Every few strokes, he wiped the blade, checked under different lighting, re-lathered and shaved again. His feet were starting to ache from standing, and clumps of dark hair lay scattered on the floor around him like fallen leaves.

Finally—after at least 25 painstaking minutes—he was done.

He turned his head left and right in the mirror, tilting it, stretching the skin with his fingers to check for missed spots. A few tiny bumps and red cuts stared back at him. It wasn’t a perfect job, but it was clean. Smooth. Raw.

He leaned forward, turned the tap on, and splashed cold water over his head. The sensation was intense—icy water hitting open pores and minor nicks. His scalp tingled and burned in waves. He used a towel to gently pat dry, avoiding pressure on the more sensitive cuts.

Then came the aftershave lotion.

He poured a small amount into his palm, rubbed it between his hands, and lightly spread it across his head. Instantly, a sting lit up across the surface—sharp and biting.

"Ahhh! Damn…" he hissed, eyes squinting.

But as the pain faded, it gave way to something oddly satisfying—like his scalp was waking up after years under a veil.

Rohan stepped back and looked at himself in the mirror.

There he stood—shirtless, buzzed, and clean-shaven up top. A few red dots peppered the surface like tiny battle scars. His jaw hung slightly open in disbelief. He ran his hand over his head. The surface was smooth… alien… yet empowering.

He cleaned the sink, swept the floor of hair, then walked into his room. He pulled on a clean black t-shirt and his cotton boxers, climbed into bed, and lay flat.

His bare scalp brushed the pillow, cool and unfamiliar.

He chuckled softly, still processing what he had just done. The coolness of the pillow against his freshly shaven head gave him a strange sense of calm.

For the first time in years, he felt… reset.

And with that thought, his eyes closed and he slowly drifted into a deep afternoon sleep.

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