Shaved for grades by amaaan

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I am Aman, a 7th-grade student in Delhi. My hair used to be my pride—a sexy, trendy haircut that made me the most handsome in class. But today, pride would be replaced with obedience.
My father, Rajeev, had been away on work for months. After attending the Parent-Teacher Meeting, he returned home furious. He had seen my report card: marks so low that I was set to repeat 7th grade. The humiliation in front of the teacher and classmates had burned his patience.
"Aman! These grades! What is this? And look at your hair—it’s completely out of control!" he snapped.
"I… I tried, dad…" I stammered.
Before I could finish, a tight slap across my cheek sent me staggering into the wall.
"Sit down. Now. Today you learn discipline," he ordered, grabbing a fistful of my hair. When I tried to pull back, he slapped my shoulder and shoved me into the barber chair.

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At the Barber Shop
The barber arrived, and my father gave clear instructions in Hindi, sharply and formally:
"Scissors se poore baal kaat do—bilkul bareek Samjhe?"
The barber nodded. "Ji sir, samajh gaye. Shuru karte hain."
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Scissors Phase â€" All Over
Snap! Snap! First, the back strands fell in thick, glossy streams, landing on my lap and cape.
Snap! Snap! The right side, hair cascading down.
Snap! Snap! Then the left side, spiraling in heavy locks.
My father grabbed a fistful of my hair, giving tight slaps when I tried to resist.
The barber then combed my top forward, pulling each long strand onto my lap. Snap! Snap! Hair fell in thick ribbons, and I could not stop crying.
Snap! Snap! Each strand that fell onto my lap reminded me of my failure, my previous pride in my "sexy" haircut now gone.
The barber paused. "Sir, abhi thik hai kya?"
My father’s eyes blazed. "Nahi!aur chhota karo! machine se 1 number sab jagah!"
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Clipper Phase â€" All Over
Brrrr… brrrr… The clipper hummed.
Back first—brrrr…
Right side—brrrr…
Left side—brrrr…
Top—brrrr…
Hair fell in heavy, glossy streams onto my lap. I tried to grab his leg again before top was cut, but another tight slap forced me upright.
The barber paused and asked, "Sir, ab?"
My father’s voice was sharp and final: "Nahi! Ab main chahta hoon poora ganja kar do! Lather lagao aur razor se shave karo, poora sir, baar-baar, tab tak jab tak chikna na ho!"
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Razor Phase â€" Multiple Passes Until smooth
The thick foam coated my scalp.
Shhhhk… shhhhk… shhhhk… The razor scraped along the back, hair spiraling off onto my lap.
Shhhhk… shhhhk… Right side, left side, top, multiple passes. Every stubborn strand removed. My scalp was now completely ganja and perfectly chikna.
I sobbed uncontrollably, clutching my lap, every lock a reminder of obedience.
Slap! Slap! Slap! My father’s hand struck my shoulder repeatedly.
Monthly Reminder
Finally, my father stepped back, calm but imposing. "This is discipline, Aman. You will come for a shave every month until you pass 10th grade. Samjhe?"
I could only nod, tears streaking my face. Every snap, brrrr, shhhhk of scissors and razor, every strand falling on my lap, had left a permanent lesson.
The sexy haircut that had once made me the most handsome in class was gone, replaced with obedience, baldness, and a clear reminder: pride comes second, responsibility first.

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