Arjun had always been proud of his hair. It was thick, dark, and fell in smooth waves well below his back—far longer than most other boys in college. He often left it open, allowing it to flow behind him when he walked. Whenever anyone commented, he would dismiss them with a smirk and continue on his way. He believed that nobody should dictate how he looked.

However, the students at National Institute of Arts and Science viewed things differently. The college had a rule—any student with long hair was supposed to keep it neatly tied. It was meant for everyone, girls and boys alike. But Arjun refused to follow this. He thought the rule was silly. The fact that many of the girls, like Anika, Sanya, Meera, Nisha, and Tara, had long hair didn’t bother him until they started complaining that they had to tie their hair while he freely roamed around with his hair open and unkempt.

That morning, he strolled into his classroom a few minutes late, as usual, with his hair draped over his shoulders. He saw the usual scowls directed at him by the female students, who had their hair tied in various styles—high ponytails, simple buns, braided plaits. In the front of the class sat Professor Lakshmi, known for her strict nature when it came to discipline. She looked up from her attendance sheet, gave Arjun one icy glare, and spoke sharply.

“Arjun,” she said, crossing her arms over her beige cotton sari, “how many times do I have to tell you to tie your hair if you insist on keeping it so long?”

Arjun shrugged. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing a few stray strands out of his face. “Why don’t you ask the girls to cut their hair?” he retorted, voice dripping with arrogance. “You’re always after me for some reason.”

In response, the girls in the class—Anika, Sanya, Meera, Nisha, and Tara—glanced back with smirks of their own. Anika whispered loudly enough for all to hear, “He thinks he’s special. If we have to tie our hair, then so should he. He wants to pretend he’s above the rules.”

Professor Lakshmi’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you argue with me, Arjun,” she warned. She tapped the desk with a wooden ruler. “The college rule states: ‘If your hair extends below shoulder length, you must keep it neatly tied.’ That applies to all students. You have refused to obey this rule multiple times.”

Some of the girls tittered and began exchanging looks. Sanya muttered, “He wants to keep his hair open like us. Maybe we should treat him just like one of us, then.”

Arjun stared at them fiercely. “I’m not cutting my hair,” he snapped. “And I’m not tying it either.”

Professor Lakshmi’s face hardened. She pointed at the empty chair near her desk. “Come here, sissy. Sit down in front of the class. If you insist on having hair like a girl, I’ll make sure you get styled just like a girl.”

A wave of laughter rippled through the classroom. Arjun felt a sudden jolt of anger and embarrassment. He refused to move at first, but the professor’s unflinching stare made it clear she wasn’t joking. Reluctantly, he slouched over to the chair.

The moment he settled down, the girls edged forward in their seats with excitement. Meera whispered, “He’s going to look so cute! Let’s see how girly he can get.” Nisha’s eyes gleamed with mischief. Tara was already snickering under her breath, anticipating the show.

Professor Lakshmi reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a simple black comb, a hair band, a claw clip, and a few other basic hair accessories. She stood behind Arjun, who sat there stiffly, staring straight ahead at the blackboard. His heart thumped in his chest, and he could smell the faint scent of coconut oil wafting from his own hair as the professor ran her fingers through it. He noticed how quiet the class had become—so quiet he could hear the soft rasp of the comb’s teeth slicing through his tangled locks.

He winced slightly. His scalp tingled under the tension of the comb. Usually, he just let his hair hang loose without giving it much care besides a quick shampoo. Now, every knot and tangle was being teased apart, and he felt the professor’s strong grip. She parted his hair down the middle with deliberate precision, making sure each side fell in symmetrical sheets over his shoulders.

She said, “You want to behave like a girl with your hair, I’ll make sure you experience exactly how they maintain it.” Her tone was stern. “Girls, come closer and watch. I want you to see how we handle messy, long hair.”

Anika, Sanya, Meera, Nisha, and Tara abandoned their seats and encircled him, smiling in anticipation. Tara let out a small snort of amusement, “He looks so funny. Look how girly he is with that neat parting.”

“Hey,” Anika taunted, leaning over to look at him in the face, “I think we should call you Arjuni now, hmm?” Giggles erupted from all the girls, and Arjun felt his cheeks burn with humiliation.

Professor Lakshmi continued: “Now, first we’ll try a simple high ponytail. Hold still, Arjun.”

He felt her fingers gather his hair at the top of his head, pulling it tight. The tug against his scalp was sharper than he expected. He could smell the faint, clean fragrance of shampoo that lingered in his own hair, and now everyone could see exactly how long and thick it was. The girls made sure to keep up their snide remarks.

Nisha smirked and said, “Aww, your hair is so lovely, Arjun. I’m almost jealous! You could totally pass for one of us from the back.”

He heard the rustle of the hair band as it was pulled around his gathered strands. Suddenly, the teacher let the ponytail bounce. It was a high, tight ponytail perched on the top of his head, swishing slightly when he moved. The girls burst into a fresh round of laughter.

Arjun clenched his fists in his lap, fighting the urge to stand up and storm off. But he felt pinned by the teacher’s authority and the mocking eyes of his classmates. He tried to focus on the sounds around him—low giggles, scornful whispers, and the rasp of the teacher’s comb whenever she adjusted the style. The tension in the air was tangible. He could feel the heat rising in his face. Every breath he took felt labored, but that didn’t stop the teacher from moving on to the next style.

“All right,” Professor Lakshmi said brusquely, “now let’s show him what a woman’s bun feels like.”

She loosened the ponytail, letting his hair spill back down. Arjun saw a few stray hairs float past his eyes; they tickled his cheeks. He noticed how much heavier it felt when not secured, a sensation he usually enjoyed—only now, he was painfully aware that everyone was watching. The teacher gathered the hair at the back of his head, twisting it round and round. He could hear the soft scratching of her fingernails against his scalp. It made him shiver involuntarily.

He swallowed hard, tasting the dryness in his throat as she wound his hair into a tight bun. Her voice was stern. “This is how a disciplined girl in our college might wear her hair. Let’s make it neat.” She pinned the bun in place with a few bobby pins and a hair stick. Then she snapped open a simple black claw clip, sliding it around any loose sections. Each click felt like another blow to his pride.

Sanya spoke up, “Wow, Arjun, or should I say Arjuni? You look so ladylike with that bun.”

Meera added, “Definitely a sissy look. Are you enjoying this, Arjun? Don’t lie; we can see that blush.”

Arjun bit his lip, completely mortified. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears, could feel sweat starting to gather near his hairline. Meanwhile, Professor Lakshmi stepped around to examine her handiwork. The bun sat high at the back of his head, tidy and unmistakably feminine.

“Not bad,” she commented. “Girls, what do you think?”

“Lovely!” Tara teased in a sing-song voice. “He’ll blend right in with us in the ladies’ bathroom.”

Another wave of laughter spread through the small group. Arjun heard the sounds echo off the classroom’s plain walls, making him feel smaller and more helpless. He stared at the floor, noticing the faint scuff marks on the old, mosaic-tiled surface, anything to avoid meeting their eyes.

Professor Lakshmi wasn’t done yet. She untied the bun, letting his hair unravel in gentle waves. She then meticulously separated the strands into two sections for pigtails, securing each side with a rubber band. Arjun couldn’t help but notice how odd and airy his neck felt with his hair divided into two chunky sections. He felt a cool breeze against his nape. Each movement of his head made the pigtails sway, brushing against his back like two curious creatures.

“Yes, that’s more like it,” Meera giggled, stepping closer to get a good look. She gave one of the pigtails a small tug, making Arjun flinch. “Super cute.”

Feeling cornered, Arjun swallowed hard, his throat tight. He could practically taste the tension in the air. The smell of cheap perfume wafted around—some of the girls wore jasmine-scented sprays, and it mixed with the coconut oil from his hair, forming a strange, dizzying aroma. All the while, Professor Lakshmi continued to lecture him on proper grooming. “See how time-consuming this is, Arjun? We girls do it every day. If you want hair like this, you must learn to maintain it.”

He didn’t reply; he just sat there, face burning. Part of him wanted to snap back, but the weight of everyone’s eyes held him in place. He could feel them examining him from head to toe, relishing his humiliation. Several girls pulled out their phones, discreetly snapping photos or videos. He couldn’t help but notice the small shutter sounds and giggles.

“All right, ladies,” Professor Lakshmi announced, “we’ve shown him a few styles—a high ponytail, a bun, pigtails. Let’s let him see how it feels to do a simple side-part with a claw clip, just for variety.”

She parted his hair to the side this time, smoothing it down with the comb. The soft teeth of the comb glided across his scalp, making him wince slightly from the tender spots that had been pulled on repeatedly. The teacher then gathered one side, twisted it gently, and slid the claw clip on, creating a neat, girlish half-up style.

Standing behind him, Anika said, “That’s how I do my hair when I’m in a hurry. Now you can do it too, Arjun—or should I say Arjuni?” She emphasized the suffix just to stoke the teasing further.

Arjun tried to ignore her. He kept his eyes fixed on the chalkboard in front. The neat, white lines of last period’s notes blurred in his vision. He was far too conscious of the swirl of scents—his own sweat, the girls’ perfumes, the coconut oil in his hair, and the faint rubbery smell from the hair accessories. The overhead fan hummed gently, stirring the air around the classroom, but it offered no real comfort. Every moment felt endless.

Finally, the teacher stopped, letting out a breath. She placed the comb on her desk and stared down at him. “Now, Arjun, do you understand why you should follow the rules? This is part of the discipline here. If you insist on having long hair, you will keep it tied, neat, and presentable at all times. Otherwise, we’ll repeat this…performance every single day.”

A hush fell over the group. The girls waited, smirking, ready to hear his response. Arjun mustered all his courage, but he realized he had no more scathing replies to give. His scalp was sore from all the styling. His pride was in tatters.

He finally mumbled, “Yes, ma’am…”

Sanya clapped mockingly. “Aww, that’s so sweet of you to admit. Now you look just like us, Arjun—well, maybe not exactly, but close enough.”

Anika giggled. “I think I’ll lend him one of my cute hair scrunchies tomorrow. Don’t you think that’ll suit him, girls?”

“Oh, definitely,” Meera laughed. “He should keep wearing pigtails. So adorable, na?”

They all burst into raucous laughter once again. Arjun felt his stomach twist into knots. He glanced around to see if anyone would take pity on him, but not a single friendly face emerged. The entire class seemed to relish his humiliation.

Professor Lakshmi, satisfied with her lesson, told him, “Now go back to your seat. And let this be a warning. If I ever see you again with your hair flowing all over the place, we’ll have a nice little hairstyling session in front of everyone. Understand?”

Arjun stood up slowly, blinking to clear the moisture in his eyes. He nodded. His hair was still pinned partially up with a claw clip, the rest cascading around his shoulders. He could see a few strands sticking out, but he didn’t dare fix it. His whole body buzzed with a mixture of shame and uneasy acceptance.

As he made his way back to his bench, the girls parted, letting him pass through their little circle. He felt each of their scrutinizing stares. He heard every giggle and whisper. It felt like a gauntlet of ridicule. Finally, he slumped down into his seat and tried to breathe normally, ignoring the pounding in his chest.

Anika tossed him a final comment: “Hey, Arjun, or should I say ‘her highness’? Don’t forget—tomorrow, we want to see you with your hair neatly tied. If not, we’ll be happy to treat you to another makeover.” The threat was sweet and malicious all at once.

For the rest of the class, Arjun sat there with his newly styled hair, cheeks burning, as everyone else settled into the lesson. He tried to focus on the lecture, but all he could feel was the strange pull of the clip in his hair, all he could smell was the lingering coconut oil and the faint perfume around him. He was aware of every movement, every stolen glance from the girls behind him, every hushed snicker.

In that moment, he realized that he might have to swallow his pride or face these daily humiliations again and again. Part of him still roiled with anger, but another part felt strangely disarmed, wondering if maybe he should just tie his hair from now on—anything to avoid a scene like this. Yet as he touched the twisted portion of hair pinned on the side of his head, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of resentment. Was it really his fault that he loved his hair long?

But there, amid the faint whir of the overhead fan and the soft murmur of lectures, Arjun had no escape. He could only sit in silence, the teacher’s parting words ringing in his ears: “If you want to keep it like a girl, be prepared for the consequences…”

And all the while, the girls—Anika, Sanya, Meera, Nisha, and Tara—grinned behind him, fully intending to hold him to that warning.

---

End of Story

Karan was a typical college student at Zenith College in Aurangabad—spirited, easygoing, and known for his unusually long hair that fell below his chest. Having maintained it for years, he was proud of his thick, dark locks. Often, when strolling through the Aurangabad East area or riding his bike past Skylark Towers, he would tie his hair up in a low ponytail or simply let it flow behind him. His friends—Neha, Anjali, and Sanya—had teased him about his hair many times, but their playful jabs were never anything he took seriously. Until one day, their teasing took a sudden turn.

It all started on a rainy afternoon at the Kedar Chowk area in Aurangabad. Classes had wrapped up early because of the monsoon downpour, so the group had decided to hang out at a small café near the station. They sipped on hot chai and munched on samosas, discussing the newest Bollywood movies and complaining about the mountainous loads of college assignments. Karan was distracted by his phone, not noticing how his three friends occasionally exchanged mischievous glances.

“Karan, we have a surprise for you,” Neha said suddenly, her voice bright with excitement.

“A surprise? For me?” Karan cocked his head, slightly suspicious but also curious.

“Yeah, something that’s long overdue,” Anjali added with a playful grin. “You’ll thank us later.”

Sanya, the quietest of the bunch, merely smiled. She fiddled with the scrunchie around her wrist, her gaze shifting between Neha and Anjali, as if confirming that they were indeed about to move forward with their plan.

Karan shrugged. “Alright. I’m up for anything.”

They finished their chai, paid the bill, and stepped out into the drizzle. None of the girls bothered to elaborate on what the “surprise” was, fueling Karan’s curiosity all the more. He had no idea what lay in store for him.

Before he knew it, Karan was whisked along the bustling streets of Aurangabad East. The rainy weather made everything glisten under the streetlights. Rickshaws weaved through the narrow lanes, vendors called out to passersby, and a mild smell of damp earth mixed with the usual aromas of roadside snacks and spices.

“Where exactly are we going?” Karan asked, weaving around puddles.

“You’ll see,” Neha said, her tone brimming with mischief.

“We’re almost there,” Anjali chimed in.

Sanya’s eyes danced with excitement as she pulled Karan a step faster, occasionally tugging lightly at the sleeve of his T-shirt to hurry him along. He felt uneasy under their unwavering grins but decided to trust them. After all, they had been his friends since the first year of college.

When they reached a small, brightly lit salon, Karan hesitated. It was called “Glamour Beauty Salon,” a place known for women’s haircuts and styling. The neon pink sign reflected on the puddles outside. A familiar sweet scent of hair conditioner and shampoo wafted out each time someone opened the door.

“What are we doing here?” Karan asked, blinking in confusion.

“You’re about to find out,” Neha replied, hooking her arm through his. “You’re coming with us.”

“But this is a ladies’ salon, isn’t it?” he asked, feeling a sudden rush of nerves.

Sanya nodded, putting her hand on his back. “Exactly.”

Before Karan could protest, Anjali guided him inside. The hum of hairdryers and low chatter in Hindi filled the air. A flicker of bright fluorescent lights and large mirrors lined the walls. Women were getting their hair styled, dyed, and cut. Instantly, Karan felt out of place, but before he could say a word, the three friends ushered him to a corner seat by a large mirror.

Once inside, the salon staff offered them seats, albeit with bemused expressions at the sight of a young man who looked quite anxious. Neha approached the salon’s manager—an older lady everyone called “Aunty,” known for her no-nonsense attitude—and whispered a few instructions. Aunty nodded, a smile tugging at her lips as she gave Karan a once-over.

Karan noticed Neha slip some cash into Aunty’s hand. A prickling sensation of dread crawled up his spine. He couldn’t guess what they’d just arranged. Next to him, Sanya was rummaging through the shelves, picking up combs and clips, eyeing them like she was choosing tools for an elaborate art project.

Anjali, meanwhile, was leaning over Karan’s shoulder, her chin nearly touching him. “You’re going to look so… cute after this,” she teased, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Karan’s face burned. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. Be patient, Karan,” Sanya said, placing a hand lightly on top of his head. She patted it as if reassuring a child.

He wanted to question them further, but the whirl of events made his mind spin. The sounds of blowdryers and the strong chemical smell of hair dyes were almost suffocating. He glanced around the salon, noticing the curious stares from other customers. Some of them openly giggled, while others just raised their eyebrows, seemingly amused at the sight of him in a women’s salon.

Aunty walked over, brandishing a wide-tooth comb and a spray bottle filled with water. In fluent Marathi, she asked Karan to lean back. Confused but too overwhelmed to argue, he obeyed. The chairs squeaked as he settled into a reclined position, head resting on a basin.

“You’ll smell the shampoo first,” Neha giggled.

Sure enough, he did. A flowery scent of jasmine and coconut oil shampoo permeated the air. The warm water cascaded onto his scalp, and Aunty massaged the shampoo through his hair with practiced efficiency. Each swirl of her fingers made him more aware of how long his hair was—how easy it was for someone to treat it like a woman’s hair.

As Aunty rinsed out the shampoo and conditioned his hair, he heard Anjali’s voice behind him, “We told you we had a surprise. It’s time for a new style. And trust us, you’re going to be… adorable.”

Karan felt his stomach flip. “What do you mean by that exactly?”

Neha smirked. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing bad. You’ll look… different.”

The water was turned off, and Aunty wrapped a towel around Karan’s head, patting it dry. Drips of water trickled down his neck, sending a small chill through him. He tried to push down the fluttering nerves in his stomach.

Steered away from the wash basin, Karan was led to a stylist’s chair facing a huge mirror. The bright lights above reflected harshly off the glass, making him squint. The seat was raised higher than typical barber chairs, designed so that the stylist could easily work on a woman’s hair. A black cape was whisked around his neck and snapped into place. One by one, the girls surrounded him—Neha on his right, Anjali on his left, and Sanya standing behind him.

“So, Karan,” Sanya cooed, “do you trust us?”

He gulped. “I—I guess?”

“Good,” Neha said cheerfully, though her grin was devilish.

She reached forward and began to comb his damp, silky hair. The comb’s teeth glided through easily at first, but then they paused at a few tangles, tugging the strands sharply enough to make Karan wince. He felt the subtle pulls on his scalp, each one a small reminder of how vulnerable he was in this moment. Neha’s playful smirk never wavered as she continued.

Anjali took the comb from Neha and smoothed out Karan’s hair until it lay flat across his forehead. The sensation of his wet hair being manipulated, parted, and pinned was strange—he felt like a model in a ladies’ salon, and that alone made him blush. From time to time, he could hear giggles from the other women in the salon, or see them half-turning to watch the scene.

Sanya rummaged in a small drawer and pulled out a pink hair clip. She pinned back sections of Karan’s long hair so that the front section hung loose over his face. He blinked, noticing that the piece of hair near his eyes felt a bit too short to be pinned back with the rest.

Aunty then stepped in. She held a smaller comb, the kind typically used to section hair precisely. She drew a crisp line across his scalp, separating a triangular section right at the front.

“Now hold still,” Aunty said in a calm, professional tone.

Karan still had no real idea of what was about to happen. He thought maybe they’d just trim off split ends, or maybe give him layers. A significant haircut was never on his radar, and certainly not something “girly.” His heart hammered in his chest, a mixture of anticipation and dread swirling.

Aunty took the front section of Karan’s hair—damp and combed forward over his forehead—and lifted it up between her fingers. She reached to her waist for a long pair of salon scissors. They made a small clicking noise as she opened and closed them, testing the blades.

“Ready?” Aunty asked, more as a formality than an actual question, because before Karan could respond, the scissors were already sliding into that thick section of hair.

Munch… snip… The first cut tore through the silence, slicing off what felt like several inches of hair in one go. Karan couldn’t believe how close to his brow line she was cutting. He felt the cool air on the newly exposed skin of his forehead. Time seemed to slow, the metallic scent of the scissors mixing with the subtle floral aroma of his freshly shampooed hair. His heart pounded louder in his ears.

He tried to speak but the words wouldn’t form. Neha placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder, as if silently telling him it was too late to protest now. Anjali’s eyes sparkled with glee, and Sanya leaned forward, her breath just grazing his ear.

“Don’t worry,” Sanya whispered. “It’s just bangs… girly bangs.”

That word—bangs—sent his mind whirling. He’d never had bangs in his life. He recalled seeing them on his female classmates, but the idea of himself sporting such a style felt alien and mortifying.

With each snip, more hair fell onto the cape, creating a small, dark pile on his lap. The sound of the blades was almost deafening to him. Aunty worked meticulously, combing the damp strands forward, checking symmetry, then cutting a tiny bit more to achieve a neat, blunt line across his forehead. The hair framed his face now, the ends curling slightly under the pressure of being wet.

From behind, Neha rummaged through the towel, collecting the fallen strands. “Look at this!” she teased, holding up a fistful of his hair like a trophy. “This was all yours, Karan. Feels lighter, huh?”

He swallowed hard, unable to form a response.

Aunty stepped back, inspecting her work. “Perfect,” she said. She took out a smaller pair of thinning shears, just to tidy up any stray hair that might cause unevenness. Her fingers brushed against Karan’s forehead, sending tiny shocks of cold air wherever his now-short hair no longer covered.

Once the bangs were cut, Aunty unclipped the rest of his hair. He felt it swish around his shoulders, the length still mostly intact, but the front section was entirely transformed. Suddenly, Neha came around to stand before him, her mouth twisting into a triumphant grin.

“Oh, wow,” she cooed, “You look… so adorable.” She emphasized the word “adorable,” her eyes raking over his brand-new bangs.

Anjali slapped her thigh in laughter. “He looks like one of us now!”

Sanya chimed in. “Finally, we got rid of that long fringe. Now you have actual bangs.”

Karan stared at himself in the mirror, mouth slightly open. He could hardly recognize his own reflection. The blunt bangs lay straight across his forehead, stopping just above his eyebrows. The rest of his hair was still long and brushed out—just as thick and flowing as before—but the girly bangs changed the entire shape of his face, giving him a softer, almost feminine look.

His friends’ voices washed over him:

“Karan, or shall we call you Karina now?”

“Look at you! So cute!”

“Should we paint his nails next?”

He blushed fiercely, wanting to hide behind his old, longer front sections of hair, but they were gone. He had no curtain left to conceal his burning cheeks. He looked at the mound of severed hair in his lap, feeling a bizarre mixture of shock, embarrassment, and, oddly enough, a strange thrill that he couldn’t quite identify.

The noises of the salon resumed around them—hairdryers whirring, customers chatting, and the snipping of scissors at other stations. Yet it felt like everyone’s attention was on him. Some women openly stared, some giggled, and others just smiled knowingly. Anjali gently tilted his chin upward, forcing him to maintain eye contact with his own reflection.

“Don’t worry,” she said, trying to sound consoling yet still brimming with playful malice. “You’ll get used to it.”

Sanya leaned in and took a photo on her phone before he could stop her. “We need to keep a memory of this moment,” she declared.

Aunty chimed in. “Do you want me to blow-dry it or style it further?”

Neha nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, please. Make the bangs look nice and neat.”

Aunty plugged in a hairdryer and began to gently blow-dry Karan’s new bangs. The heat fanned across his forehead, and she used a round brush to curl the very ends inward, giving them a classic blunt style. He could smell the faint hint of hairspray as she lightly spritzed the fringe to hold it in place. With each pass of the hairdryer, Karan felt more and more of that airy feeling above his eyebrows, where hair once covered him.

Anjali took the opportunity to run her fingers through the rest of his length, sometimes yanking on knots a little too roughly, causing him to wince. “You better take care of this hair now,” she teased. “We went through all this trouble for your makeover.”

The final result was a neat, short fringe that starkly contrasted with his still-long hair. The reflection that stared back at him was simultaneously humiliating and mesmerizing. He felt hyper-aware of the stares and comments from everyone around. Even Neha gave him an approving nod, as if proud of a job well done.

Once the payment was settled, Karan’s friends hurried him out of the salon. The drizzle outside had lessened to a light sprinkle. The neon pink sign of “Glamour Beauty Salon” glowed behind him in the evening twilight. The lively streets of Aurangabad East were abuzz with people, and he could swear every passerby glanced at him. He tried to tell himself it was just his imagination, but the incessant giggles from Neha, Anjali, and Sanya convinced him otherwise.

“He’s blushing so much,” Anjali teased, poking at his cheek.

“Karan, you okay there? Or should we say Karina?” Neha joked.

Sanya placed a playful hand on his shoulder. “Think of it as a punishment or a lesson. Next time, don’t be so cocky about your hair.”

Karan tried to muster a comeback, but words failed him. A mild breeze brushed across his new bangs, tickling his forehead in a way he’d never experienced before. His scalp still tingled from the combing and tugging in the salon. His clothes clung slightly from the humidity, and the salon’s fruity hair product scent followed him into the street, a lingering reminder of everything that had just happened.

Despite feeling mortified and humiliated, he couldn’t entirely deny a strange sense of relief. The fear of the unknown was over—his hair had been cut. He was stuck with these bangs, at least for a while, and there was nothing else to do but own them. As the group made their way through the bustling roads—passing Galaxy Square and heading toward the station—he tried to sink into the crowd, but there was no hiding those freshly snipped bangs.

The day ended with the four of them heading to their usual hangout near the corner of the station road. They grabbed another round of chai, and whenever Karan looked down at his reflection in the steel glass used for tea, he would see that short fringe bobbing across his forehead. Neha and Anjali continued to tease him lightly, and Sanya snapped a few more photos.

By the time he reached home, the shock had finally begun to wear off, replaced by a resigned acceptance—and a part of him even found it all slightly amusing. After all, it had been a bizarre day. If nothing else, he had a story to tell—one set in the bustling heart of Aurangabad, featuring mischievous friends, a cunning salon aunty, and a surprise haircut he’d never forget.

He pushed open his front door, still catching faint whiffs of jasmine shampoo. As he walked inside, he couldn’t help but wonder how he would face his classmates in college the next day.

But that was a concern for the morning. For now, he let out a deep sigh, reached up to pat those blunt bangs he never asked for, and whispered under his breath, “Guess I’ll have to get used to being called… cute.”

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.