It has been four months, one week and a couple of days since I shaved my hair off. What a relief it has been. I have never been this fond of my hairstyle. And never have people made me question my femininity so much.

Instead of blaming these people, I try to think about how uncommon it is for women to shave their heads. Hair is a big part of our identity. And so was my unruly, curly hair. Family and friends recognised me from afar because of my hair. After I learned to take care of it, my hair became an object of envy. For years, I enjoyed having natural curls that needed minimal maintenance. A little bit of hair oil, good shampoo and conditioner, and I was ready.

Meanwhile, I saw friends and other women shave their hair and pull it off gracefully. They seemed to be having so much fun. How did they feel? What if I cut mine too? How would it feel like to not have any good or bad hair days? It intrigued me. The answer came to punch me in the face when I came home with a shaved head.

Mother sat me down, her eyes glowering. What I did, she said, was not courageous but audacious. Did I know what I had done? Shaving one’s head was an act of mourning and it was inauspicious for women to do so. “Are we dead?” she asked. It seemed like the end of the world. What would people say? I told her that hair grows back, and that it’s not a big deal. My mother would not have any of it.

I spent the next few days telling everyone that I did what I did because I had wanted to, not because I was sick or because I was going through something. I was confident about my decision, but I felt it ebbing away. It didn’t help that I had dreams about long and luscious hair for weeks after. A 13-year-old cousin asked me to wear a wig. She was uncomfortable with my lack of hair.

The real test was the day I had to attend a family function. You’d think I stood my ground and told everyone to back off. But I didn’t. Like a coward, I simply wrapped a shawl around my head, mostly to appease my Maa, who had given me the scolding of my life a few days earlier. Never had I seen my sweet grandma so aggravated.

In the immediate days that followed, I kept expecting people to mistake me for a ‘bhai’ or a ‘dai’, at least in the daily public rides that I take. It didn’t happen until two months later. It was the simple relief of the moment that made me grin. But not so much when it happened again a month later at a community event.

During Bala Chaturdashi, guthi members convene to enjoy a feast, also known as jhwo bhwe. People sitting in my vicinity not only enjoyed the feast, but also a roasting session. One of the servers mistook me for a man. “Do you want another helping, ‘babu’?” she said, again and again. My uncle, who was in the middle of smushing baji and takha, almost knocked over his thwon and joyously called me ‘babu’ for the rest of the evening.

Family members who hadn’t seen my brother for a long time thought I looked like him. “He has long hair,” I said, slightly annoyed. Then it hit me, my brother has been constantly criticised for not having short hair. Is this how he felt? Is this what men are put through when they get attached to their locks?

The experience would have been different if I didn’t have friends and sisters who were thrilled about my short hair. A friend dedicated her time to teach me creative retorts. An aunt impressed me when she asked if it was a way to be off the street-harassment market. I beamed.

It has been an experience finding out that a shaved head means different things for different people. I didn’t want to make any statements. I just wanted to try out something new. I just wanted to be another person with really short hair.

Shaving my head has been more trouble than I thought it would be. And the thing is, if I keep short hair, the comments might not bother me so much. Until then, I rest knowing the hair that I chopped off is getting a new life.

The fateful day, I wasn’t sure which barber’s shop to visit. After entertaining the idea for months, I had finally decided. I looked for one in google maps and found it. Two barbers were snacking when I entered. They looked at each other but didn’t move or say anything. I took a seat and soon, one set up the apparatus. “What do you want?” he asked. “Cut it all.”

“All?” he asked, wide-eyed. I nodded. Without further questions, he combed and clipped my hair, and then gently placed it on the table. As I looked at the mirror, I asked him what would happen to the hair.

“We’ll use it to make dreadlocks,” he said.

Isn’t that great?