cutting my hair

Amma had kept my hair long since childhood, insisting it channeled Carnatic music's spiritual energy. When I finally cut it at twenty-three, she wept watching the dark strands fall. That evening, scrolling through a social network, I discovered Kannadasan's poetry about transformation. A comment promised cash rewards for sharing heritage stories. I hesitated, suspicious of monetizing family memories. But writing about that haircut—how it freed me while honoring tradition—felt right. My grandmother read it, smiled, and shared with her music circle. Overnight, our story connected strangers to their own legacies, reminding us that belonging transcends what we gain.