She did not shout.
She closed the door.
Margaret guided Lena into the back room with precise, deliberate movements. Before Lena could fully process what was happening, Margaret produced a pair of heavy scissors—the kind meant for fabric, not hair. In that instant, Lena understood this was not anger. It was punishment.
“Do you know why women like you keep their hair long?” Margaret asked coldly, gripping Lena’s dark braid. “To attract attention. To pretend you have value.”
Lena froze, shock paralyzing her before fear could even take hold.
“Please,” she whispered, reaching up instinctively. “Don’t.”
The scissors snapped shut with a sound far louder than it should have been. The braid fell to the floor—final, severed. Margaret continued without hesitation, cutting unevenly, ignoring Lena’s sobs, her pleas, the years woven into every strand.
“This will teach you humility,” Margaret said. “This will remind you of your place.”
When it was over, Lena barely recognized her reflection. She wasn’t just missing hair—she had been stripped of dignity. Margaret thrust a small bag into her hands.
“You’re leaving,” she said flatly. “I won’t keep a shameless woman in my home.”
Lena dropped to her knees—not in weakness, but in disbelief—begging not for forgiveness, but for understanding. Margaret had already turned away.
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