A Tense Departure: Raj’s First Day

Raj couldn’t stop fidgeting with the collar of his crisp new uniform as he stepped onto the aircraft. It was his first day as a flight attendant—a day he’d dreamed about since childhood—and yet a knot of tension coiled tightly in his stomach. The weight of the cabin crew badge on his lapel felt heavier than he’d imagined, and he sensed the other flight attendants watching him the moment he boarded.

It didn’t help that his hair—thick, dark, and quite long by standard grooming protocols—kept falling into his face, each strand a reminder that he was already out of line with official guidelines. As the other attendants scurried to ready the plane for passengers, Raj found himself struggling to get the overhead bins closed without losing sight of what he was doing. One moment, he’d brush his hair aside; the next, he’d misalign a bin and have to wrestle it shut. His scalp prickled with sweat, and he silently prayed no one would notice.

He quickly realized he wasn’t going to get off so easily.

The Supervisor’s Fury

“Raj!” a sharp voice barked, echoing down the aisle. Mrs. Mehra, his supervisor, stepped into view. Tall, impeccably groomed, and exuding a stern authority, she looked him up and down. Her eyes stopped on his hair, her lip curling in disapproval.

Raj straightened his shoulders. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Explain this,” Mrs. Mehra demanded, gesturing at his loose, shoulder-length hair. “Didn’t you read the grooming manual? Are you ignoring every rule we have?”

Already on the defensive, Raj could feel annoyance churning in his chest. Rather than apologizing, he let frustration speak first. “You all have long hair,” he retorted, flicking his eyes at her neatly coiffed bun. “Why should I be singled out? Maybe you should cut yours if it’s such a big problem.”

A hush fell between them. The distant hum of the plane’s ventilation filled the tense silence. Mrs. Mehra’s nostrils flared, and Raj sensed he had pushed too far. His cheeks reddened, but pride kept him from taking back his words.

Mrs. Mehra leaned in, her voice low. “You’d do well to remember who’s in charge here,” she warned. “I don’t have the time to send you home for insubordination. We’re short-staffed, and we need you on this flight. But make no mistake—there will be consequences for your disrespect.”

Chaos in the Cabin

Despite her warning, Mrs. Mehra allowed Raj to stay for the flight. Passengers began filtering in, searching for their seats. Raj tried to focus on his duties: greeting each traveler, helping stow luggage, and directing people to their rows. Yet his hair repeatedly slipped into his eyes, and he had to keep sweeping it back with an impatient flick of his wrist.

It didn’t take long for his frustration—and his hair—to cause trouble.

While offering water to a row of passengers, Raj tilted the tray too quickly. Distracted by strands of hair falling into his eyes, he misjudged his movements, and the cups toppled. Ice-cold water splashed across a startled passenger’s lap, eliciting a gasp and scattered laughter from onlookers. Raj’s face burned with embarrassment.
Later, an overhead bin jammed. Determined to prove his competence, Raj yanked it forcefully, but his hair swung into his face at the last second. He lost his grip, nearly dropping a fellow passenger’s bag on his own foot. Aggravated travelers cast irritated looks at him.
Trying to assist a family with young children, Raj leaned down to show them how to secure the seat belts properly. Once again, his hair flopped forward, brushing against a little girl’s face. She squealed, half in surprise and half in discomfort. The parents looked displeased, and Raj apologized hurriedly.

With every small mishap, Raj felt more eyes on him—some curious, some mocking. He knew the rest of the crew was growing angrier by the minute. He could practically feel their collective annoyance pressing down on him like a heavy hand. If he accidentally locked eyes with Anita or Shalini—two of the senior attendants—he saw them exchanging knowing smirks, as if saying, See? We told you this would be a problem.

Behind the Galley Curtain

A brief lull in passenger demands gave Raj a moment’s reprieve. He retreated to the galley, raking both hands through his hair, trying in vain to push it away from his face. He could feel tension radiating from behind him, and when he turned, there they stood: Anita and Shalini, arms folded and lips curled in contempt.

“You know,” Anita began, her voice soft with false sympathy, “if you insisted on wearing your hair this long, you could at least have tied it up properly.”

Shalini snorted. “He’s not even wearing a hair tie. What did he think was going to happen—those locks would just stay out of the way on their own?”

Raj bristled at their condescension. “It’s none of your business how I keep my hair,” he muttered, though less confidently now.

Shalini took a step closer, her gaze heated. “Oh, it’s very much our business. Your clumsiness is reflecting badly on the whole crew. Passengers are complaining. And we’re the ones who have to smooth things over when you mess up.”

Anita nodded. “Mrs. Mehra is furious, and we don’t blame her. If you can’t handle your own hair, how are you going to handle an emergency?”

Raj gripped the counter’s edge, knuckles whitening. He realized he was outnumbered, and he was losing. “So what do you want me to do?” he asked, forcing the words out.

Anita’s eyes gleamed. “Don’t worry. We have some ideas.”

Furious Consensus

They didn’t corner him right away, because the plane was preparing for takeoff; the crew had to buckle in, demonstrate safety instructions, and ensure the passengers were settled. But the simmering undercurrent of disapproval followed Raj through every step. From handing out blankets to checking seat belts, he felt the constant prick of scrutiny.

At one point, he heard snatches of conversation among crew members in hushed tones:

“He’s a walking disaster,” came Shalini’s clipped whisper.

“He’s too arrogant for his own good,” Anita agreed.

“We’ll handle it,” Mrs. Mehra’s voice cut through, final and dismissive.

Raj swallowed. He had a sick feeling that something bigger than an angry lecture was coming.

Unraveling Control

Once the seat-belt sign was off and the flight was cruising, Raj’s troubles continued. Forced to walk the aisle with the beverage cart, he struggled to keep the hair out of his eyes, repeatedly brushing it back. Passengers noticed. Some just stared, confused why a male attendant sported such unkempt, swaying locks. Others snickered or smiled behind their palms, as though he were part of some in-flight comedy show.

By the time he returned to the galley, his tray was lighter, but his nerves were frayed beyond repair. Anita and Shalini seemed to be waiting for him, leaning against the metal counters with arms crossed. Their faces told him there was no more time to stall.

“Enough,” Anita said, stepping forward. “You’ve tested our patience. You won’t tie it up yourself, and you refuse to acknowledge your mistake. We can’t let you keep running around causing problems.”

Raj opened his mouth to protest, but Shalini grabbed his wrist. “You don’t get a choice now,” she said icily. “We’re going to make sure your hair stops being a nuisance, once and for all.”

Mrs. Mehra appeared behind them, face cold. “In this airline, if a female attendant’s hair was causing this many issues, she’d be disciplined. Since you want to act like the rules don’t apply to you… let’s see how you handle having your hair treated just like one of the ladies.”

Raj’s pulse thundered. He tried to pull back, but Anita and Shalini were already maneuvering him into a corner of the galley, away from the curious eyes of passengers. The narrow space smelled of coffee and reheated meals, but Raj’s senses were too overwhelmed by fear and anger to focus on that. All he saw were the determined expressions of the women, all he heard was the dull roar of the plane, and all he felt was a mounting panic that this was going to be far worse than an angry lecture.

The Punishment Begins

“Hold still,” Anita ordered. Raj’s heart pounded as she snatched a hairbrush from a drawer. Without warning, she dragged the bristles through his hair, starting at his scalp with rough strokes that made him wince. He hissed in discomfort, but Shalini pressed firmly on his shoulder, keeping him in place.

His scalp burned under the vigorous brushing, the dryness of the cabin air making each stroke crackle with static. Each time he tried to jerk away, Anita’s grip tightened, yanking the brush through tangles with punishing force. He heard the crew rummaging through storage compartments—someone opening a tin or a small box. Every clank and rustle sent a jolt of unease up his spine.

“You like having your hair down, don’t you?” Shalini hissed near his ear. “Let’s make it pretty then.”

He could barely think, each tug on his hair sending stabs of pain and embarrassment through him. He wanted to shout for help, but he doubted any of the other attendants would intervene. Worse still, a part of him feared that even if passengers noticed something was off, they’d think it was just a routine grooming matter. After all, the cabin crew was expected to uphold appearance standards—maybe they’d assume this was standard procedure.

Amid the rough handling, Raj’s senses heightened. He could smell the faint metallic tang of scissors. He heard whispered conversation—Anita asking for pins, Shalini rummaging for hair bands. His heart leapt at the possibility of them cutting his hair, but just then, Mrs. Mehra’s voice drifted in:

“Not yet,” she said, in a clipped tone. “First, make him realize what it’s like to have to keep hair out of the way properly.”

Raj’s stomach twisted. Not yet. The words felt ominous, like a threat of worse things to come.

Crafting the High Bun

Anita’s movements were quick and methodical as she continued brushing. She jerked his head this way and that, trying to smooth every strand into compliance. Each yank felt like a reprimand, and she seemed to revel in his discomfort. “So you think it’s funny to walk around with hair in your eyes?” she snapped. “Don’t worry—by the time we’re done, you won’t forget what it means to keep it neat.”

Shalini stood just behind him, using her body to block any escape route. Occasionally, she’d grab the brush from Anita, taking her turn at disciplining Raj’s hair with swift, punishing strokes. He felt the stiff bristles scraping against his scalp, tugging from root to tip, forcing his hair to lie flat against his head. The repetitive hiss of hair being pulled tight seemed to echo in his ears.

Mrs. Mehra, voice low and commanding, cut through the tension: “High. Give him a tight, formal bun—like the ones our female crew wear on special assignments. He wants to act like he can flout our standards? Then he can endure the same scrutiny we do—tenfold.”

Raj’s breath hitched. A bun. A style he’d seen his female colleagues wear gracefully, with hair pulled back so taut that not a single strand escaped. On them, it looked professional. On him, it would be a final blow to his pride—an unmistakable signal that he had been defeated, made to appear “womanly” whether he liked it or not.

Anita gathered all of his hair at the crown of his head, yanking it upward. Raj winced at the unrelenting pull, feeling tears threaten at the corners of his eyes from the pressure on his scalp. She twisted the mass of hair once, twice, three times, winding it into a coil. Each rotation seemed to tighten the noose of humiliation. Then, without warning, she shoved a handful of bobby pins against Shalini’s chest, demanding, “Start pinning.”

Shalini obliged, forcing pins into the coil with brutal efficiency, each pin digging into Raj’s tender scalp like tiny needles. He let out a small hiss of pain, which only made them work faster, as if punishing him for daring to vocalize discomfort.

The overhead light glinted off a nearby mirror, giving him an unwelcome peek at the transformation taking place. His hair, once free and masculine (however unruly it had been), was now stretched so severely that his eyebrows arched higher than usual. The style was unmistakably feminine—a sleek, tight circle perched atop his head, reminiscent of a ballet dancer’s topknot or a formal, high-fashion hostess’s bun.

“This is too loose,” Anita murmured after a moment, pressing a hand to the side of the bun. “He’ll just shake it out if we let him.” She grabbed another pack of pins. Raj’s eyes widened as he felt her jam them in, one after the other, each pin forcing the coil tighter and tighter. The pressure was almost unbearable, pulling his facial skin taut until he could feel every nerve in his scalp protesting.

Secured and Subjugated

When Anita and Shalini finally stepped back, Raj felt every breath shudder in his chest. The bun sat on the very top of his head, sleek and severe. His reflection looked alien—his cheeks pulled taut, his eyes slightly widened from the tension. Mrs. Mehra nodded, a flicker of satisfaction crossing her features.

“Now,” she said softly, “tie it off. Make sure it won’t budge if he even thinks about shaking his head.”

Shalini produced a black hairnet, the kind the airline sometimes required for female attendants with very long hair. She stretched it around the entire bun, cinching it in place until it looked like an impenetrable fortress of pinned strands. Then she fastened a tight band around it, making a final pass with several more bobby pins to eliminate any chance of stray locks. Each pin’s insertion sent a fresh stab of discomfort through Raj’s scalp, but he bit down on his lip, refusing to cry out again.

“There,” Anita announced, stepping back to admire their handiwork. “A perfect, formal women’s bun—tighter than anything you’ve seen on our flights, I’d wager.”

Feeling Like Someone Else Entirely

The sensations overwhelmed Raj:

Scalp: It throbbed from the relentless pulling. Every minute movement—blinking, breathing, turning his head—reminded him that his hair was pinned into something he had never chosen.

Skin: Stretched and hot under the harsh galley lights, his forehead now felt too large, too exposed. Even the slightest expression tugged at the style.

Embarrassment: The reflection staring back at him didn’t look like Raj at all; it looked like an exaggerated caricature, forced into a hyper-feminine updo.

Humiliation: He couldn’t shake the sense that he was on display, a living example of how far Mrs. Mehra and the others would go to break his spirit.

This bun wasn’t a quick fix or a casual punishment—it was a statement. Each pin felt like a nail in the coffin of his self-respect. He was supposed to be a man, an attendant on his first day, proud of his new career. Now, he looked like a doll they had dressed up for their own amusement.

As if to drive the point home, Shalini drew a fine-tooth comb from a drawer and ran it carefully over the exposed hair at the edges of the bun, smoothing down any microscopic flyaways. She misted a spray—something that smelled faintly floral and sticky—around the base, then patted it into place. Raj didn’t dare move; each pat echoed painfully through his tightened scalp.

“This will make sure not a single strand escapes,” she said with cold satisfaction. “You’ll be well-groomed for the rest of this flight.”

Anita let out a low laugh. “He wanted to keep his hair long like us, didn’t he? Well, now he’ll see that maintaining a woman’s style is no joke.”

Mrs. Mehra stepped forward, lifting Raj’s chin with a single finger. He could barely look her in the eye, though he tried to muster some shred of defiance. “You’ll continue your duties looking exactly like this,” she declared. “And if I see so much as one strand out of place, you will regret it.”

Raj felt heat flood his cheeks. The word woman hung unspoken in the air, yet it was implied in every pin, in every forced swirl of hair. They had robbed him of the last vestige of masculinity he had been clinging to. The sight of himself in the reflection confirmed it: neat parted edges, a high bun, hair net, and a shine that suggested hours of meticulous styling.

Back into the Aisle

No sooner had they finished than Anita and Shalini propelled him toward the galley curtain, guiding him out with firm hands. He stumbled forward, the unfamiliar weight and tightness of the bun making him hyper-aware of every slight movement. As he emerged into the aisle, he saw passengers glancing up. Some stared openly, eyebrows raised in amused confusion. Others smirked or whispered to their seatmates.

A young couple stifled laughter; the man pointed with his chin, murmuring something to his partner. A pair of teenage girls openly giggled. One passenger even pulled out a phone, possibly snapping a picture. Raj’s ears burned. He wished the floor would swallow him whole.

Through the rush of blood in his ears, he heard one of his fellow crew members—the same who’d been eyeing him earlier—say in a half-mocking, half-astonished tone, “Look at that bun! Guess he’s really dedicated to uniform standards, huh?” A ripple of snickers followed.

Mrs. Mehra, stepping past him with calm authority, coolly addressed a few curious passengers with a polite smile, as though everything were perfectly normal. Raj had no choice but to follow suit, forced to maintain the professional demeanor required of an attendant. Every step sent tiny jolts of pain across his scalp, a reminder that he now wore a style designed to punish and degrade him—a style that made him question who he even was anymore.

The Punishment Continues

As turbulence threatened, Raj had to go through the motions: asking if anyone needed water, adjusting seatbacks, demonstrating safety procedures. Each action felt monumental—he couldn’t turn his head too quickly or risk driving a pin deeper. He couldn’t bend down without straining his neck, because the rigid coil wouldn’t allow him to tilt forward naturally. And with every polite query to a passenger, he felt their gaze drifting upward to the punishing style anchoring his hair in place.
The stares varied—some were amused, some perplexed, some judgmental. But all reminded him of how far he had fallen from the confident, bright-eyed newbie he’d been that morning. The tight bun, the hairnet, the bobby pins that bit into his scalp—these weren’t just about airline rules. They were a show of power, forcing him to experience the strictest grooming standard with a severity none of the female attendants would ever be subjected to in quite the same way.
He could almost feel his sense of self slipping away with each passing minute. Where earlier he was “Raj, the new flight attendant with long hair,” now he felt like a living warning to anyone who might challenge the rules: Step out of line, and your hair will become your downfall.
And so the flight wore on. With every step down the aisle, every demonstration of in-flight service, and every polite smile given through clenched teeth, Raj’s painfully secured bun remained a constant, throbbing testament to his punishment. Even when the plane finally began its descent, the pins pressing into his scalp refused to let him forget that he now existed in a state of humiliating surrender—and that his hair, once a point of personal pride, had been weaponized against him in the most intimate way possible.