DAD PLEASE NO by aryan agarwal

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Months passed, and for a while, things seemed better. My hair had finally grown out, my grades had improved, and Dad had eased up a bit. I even started to believe that maybe — just maybe — the worst was behind me.

But old habits die hard. One bad test. One careless mistake. And it all came crashing down.

It was a rainy Saturday evening. Thunder rumbled outside as I sat staring at my report card, heart sinking. Math — 42 out of 100. I didn’t even notice Dad standing in the doorway until he spoke.

"What’s this, Aryan?" His voice was low, too calm.

I swallowed hard. "It’s just one test, Dad. I’ll fix it—"

"Fix it? After everything we went through?" His tone sharpened, cutting through my words. "You think this is a game?"

"I said I’ll fix it!" I snapped back without thinking.

The silence that followed was worse than yelling. He just stared at me — disappointment, anger, disbelief all rolled into one.

"Watch your tone," he said coldly.

"Why? You’ll just shave my head again, right?" I shot back, bitterness dripping from my voice. "That’s your only solution!"

He stepped closer. "Don’t test me, Aryan."

But I didn’t stop. Months of bottled-up resentment spilled out all at once. "You don’t care about me! You just want control! Every time I make one mistake, you humiliate me!"

That did it. His jaw tightened, and he turned toward the drawer where he kept the trimmer. My stomach dropped.

"No. Not again," I muttered, backing away.

"You need to learn respect!" he barked, slamming the trimmer on the table. "Maybe this time you’ll finally understand."

He plugged it in — the familiar buzz filling the room — but then paused. His eyes flicked toward the shelf where his old razor lay. The kind he used for close shaves.

"No," I whispered, realizing what he was thinking.

"This time, we’re going clean," he said flatly. "No half measures."

Before I could react, he grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the bathroom. The harsh light glared off the tiles as rain hammered against the window. I struggled, my voice cracking. "Dad, please— I’m sorry!"

"Too late."

He ran the trimmer over my head first, cold and mechanical. The buzzing mixed with my quiet sobs. But when he switched to the razor, the sound changed — sharper, slower, more final.

Each stroke burned. My scalp felt raw, stripped bare. The mirror showed a reflection I barely recognized — pale, trembling, completely bald. Even the faint stubble was gone.

He stood behind me, breathing heavily, the razor glinting under the light. "This," he said quietly, "is what happens when you forget discipline."

I didn’t answer. My throat was tight, my face streaked with silent tears.

When it was over, he dropped the razor into the sink with a clatter and walked out without another word. I stayed there, staring at my reflection — my head gleaming under the harsh bathroom light, my eyes hollow.

Outside, the rain had stopped. I could hear the faint laughter of the same kids from before — muffled through the window but enough to sting.

"Takla again? Didn’t he learn the first time?" one voice snickered.

I closed my eyes and clenched my fists. This time, though, something inside me hardened. The humiliation was familiar, but the fear was gone.

That night, I sat on my bed, the cool air brushing against my freshly shaved scalp. My dad thought he’d broken me. But he didn’t realize — this time, I wasn’t going to cry.

This time, I was going to fight back.

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