It all started during the long lockdown when the world had come to a standstill. Rohan, an 18-year-old boy with no particular ambition during those days, simply stayed home like the rest of the country. Barber shops were closed, and slowly, almost lazily, his hair grew.
What started as messy strands brushing his forehead eventually turned into flowing, silky locks that fell well past his shoulders by the time the lockdown ended. Everyone assumed he’d cut it off eventually.
But he didn’t.
He would tie it back in a casual ponytail and had even started using his mother’s leftover coconut oil and shampoo to manage it. Somewhere between boredom and self-discovery, Rohan had fallen in love with his hair.
One Afternoon
"Beta, you’re not planning to cut it?" his mother asked one afternoon, folding laundry in the living room.
Rohan ran his fingers through his ponytail.
“I don’t feel like cutting it, Maa. I like it... feels good, looks nice, and it’s kind of my thing now.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Itna lamba? People will think you’re a girl.”
“So what? It’s 2025, not the 1950s,” he shrugged.
The Saree Shop Incident
It was during the summer vacation, on a blistering June afternoon, that the turning point came. Rohan and his mother went out shopping. She needed new sarees, and they stopped by Kanha Saree Emporium, a quiet little store at the corner of the market.
Rohan, dressed in a loose T-shirt and track pants, stood beside her looking uninterested, hair tied in a neat ponytail, no beard, soft features, and arms crossed like he was waiting for this to be over.
As his mother flipped through sarees, the young salesman smiled politely and asked her, "Madam, ye pink wala dekhiyega... acha lagega aapki beti pe."
His mother paused. “Beti?”
Salesman stammered, "Ji... woh aapke saath jo hain…”
Rohan's eyes widened. “What?!”
The mother looked at her son. The ponytail. The slim waist. The soft skin.
She smiled.
"Yes, show me more sarees for my daughter."
Rohan blinked. “Maa?! What are you saying?”
Ignoring him, she turned to the salesman. “Pack 10. Different colors. With matching blouses.”
“Maa! Are you serious? Why sarees for me? That’s a waste—”
She looked at him coolly. “If you don’t want to cut your hair, you’ll wear these. Simple.”
“What?!”
“You heard me. No haircut means sarees from tomorrow.”
At Home: The Transformation Begins
The moment they reached home, things escalated.
Rohan rushed into his room only to find all his shirts, jeans, shorts — gone.
In their place were:
Ten neatly folded sarees in cotton, silk, and chiffon
Matching petticoats and blouses
A plastic packet with his mother’s old undergarments
A box containing bangles, jhumkas, bindis, lipstick, eyeliner, kajal, mang tika, payal, and choodiyan
A new makeup kit
And resting on top... a small bottle of jasmine hair oil
He was horrified.
“MAA!” he yelled.
She entered the room with crossed arms.
“Beta, this is your new wardrobe. Tomorrow morning, I expect you bathed, dressed, and in a saree.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You had a choice: get a haircut. You didn’t. Now you live as a girl. This is your punishment and your lesson.”
“But this is insane!”
“It’s 10 p.m. All barber shops are closed,” she said smugly. “Good night, beti.”
Next Morning: Day 1 of 10
Rohan woke up dreading the day.
He stood in front of the mirror. His long hair looked even longer after a bath, wet strands clinging to his face.
No escape now...
Knock knock.
“Maa, please don’t—”
She walked in with a wax strip and towel.
“Take off your shirt.”
“What?!”
“Do you want to wear a saree over hairy arms and legs? Chhee!”
That day began with a full-body waxing session, every pull of the wax strip making him wince and squeal.
Then came the jasmine oil. His mother sat behind him on the bed, lovingly massaging the thick, fragrant oil into his scalp. His freshly waxed skin tingled under the cooling fan.
"You have such soft hair," she murmured, parting his thick locks. "Perfect for a nice braid."
She combed his hair slowly, gently tugging and parting it into three even sections. Rohan winced slightly.
“Sit straight, beti. Braiding needs patience.”
She twisted and looped the sections expertly, weaving the thick braid all the way to the small of his back. Once done, she tied a rubber band tightly at the end and held it in her palm.
“Feel it,” she said.
The braid was heavy. Dense. Solid.
Rohan stared at himself in the mirror. He looked like... not himself.
Saree Time
“Now, saree,” she declared, pulling out a soft pink cotton one.
“I... I don’t know how to wear it.”
“I’ll drape it for you today. Learn. You’ll do it yourself soon.”
She wrapped the saree’s inner end around his waist, tucked it into the petticoat, made pleats, pinned the pallu on his blouse, and stood back.
“Dekho.”
He looked like a shy village girl — slim figure, soft skin, long braid, pink saree, light blush and kajal.
She clapped her hands. “Beautiful, Rohini!”
“Rohini?”
“That’s your name now.”
His Routine for 10 Days
Those ten days became a surreal mix of humiliation, discipline, and strange adaptation.
Every morning at 6, he’d wake up, oil his hair with jasmine oil, and comb it until it shined. He would sit cross-legged while his mother braided it tightly — always center-parted, always long, always heavy.
Then came the saree. He was made to rotate through the 10 sarees: blue silk, yellow cotton, green chiffon, and more.
After getting dressed, he’d wear matching bangles, apply bindi, lipstick, and kajal. Then, barefoot, he was made to sweep and mop the floors.
“Maid ka kaam bhi seekho, Rohini.”
“Maa please…”
“Ek din kaam na karo, aur belt milega.”
