With Eid around the corner, the outfits are ready, the fake shoes are polished, the clone perfume is stocked.
All that’s left is a fresh, sharp haircut to complete the transformation.
It’s time to walk into the barbershop or salon full of confidence, picturing the perfect Eid selfies, the compliments from relatives, the flawless Instagram stories. But fate has other plans. You sit in the barber’s chair, full of hope, armed with a reference photo that screams “sharp, modern, stylish.”
The barber nods, pretends to care, and then proceeds to ignore every single instruction you gave. The photo? He looked at it like you look at photos your friends show you of their vacation: it barely registers. The scissors move at the speed of betrayal. You watch, helpless, as the razor shaves away not just your hair, but your happiness, your dignity, and your will to live.When the chair swivels, the mirror reveals a war crime.
But the true suffering has only just begun.
You are now about to experience the five inevitable stages of grief—because God tests His strongest soldiers the most.
Stage 1: Denial
No. This is not happening. This can’t be happening.
You stare at yourself, tilting your head at different angles like a confused pigeon. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’ll look better after a shower. Maybe you’re just overthinking it.
You tell yourself “it just needs some styling” as you aggressively run your hands through it, only to make things worse. The barber asks, “Bhai, looks good?” and, despite every fiber of your being screaming NO, you lie through your teeth and say “Looks great…”
Why? Because your South Asian genes will never allow you to question an authority figure cutting your hair. Instead, you pay with a tip, walk out, and continue your life in a state of complete and utter delusion.
Stage 2: Anger
Denial doesn’t last long. The moment you step outside and catch your reflection in a shop window, reality kicks you in the throat.
This is beyond bad. This isn’t just a bad haircut — this is a personal attack, an act of hair-based terrorism.
You replay the entire experience in your head. Where did it go wrong? Why did they shave that much off? Why did they add random layers you never asked for? Was this a joke? Was this barber sent by your enemies?
Your blood pressure rises, and you fantasise about going back inside, grabbing the scissors, and delivering some justice of your own.
You text the group chat with a distressed selfie, expecting sympathy, but instead, your so-called “friends” reply with:
“You look like you got out of a fight with a lawnmower.”
Blocked. Reported. Friendship over.
Stage 3: Bargaining
Panic mode: activated. There are still a few days before Eid. Maybe this can be saved.
You grab a comb and try every possible parting style — left, right, middle, zigzag, maybe even a small ponytail. Nothing works. You splash water on it like you’re conducting an exorcism. Still nothing. You start experimenting with hats. Is it too hot to wear a hoodie for three days straight? Maybe a tupi can cover it up — tell everyone you’re just feeling extra religious this year.
Desperation peaks when you turn to Google. Your search history quickly spirals:
“How fast does hair grow in 72 hours?”
“Can stress speed up hair growth?”
“Is there a dua for fixing bad haircuts?”
“Eid hat styles for hiding bad hairlines?”
You start watching DIY haircut tutorials, despite having zero experience and hands that shake at the thought of cutting paper, let alone hair. The scissors are in your hand. Your heart is racing. You know this is a terrible idea—but somehow, it’s still better than leaving it as it is.
Stage 4: Depression
You accept defeat.
The mirror is now your enemy. Your Eid selfies? Ruined. The compliments from relatives? Gone. Instead of walking into the dawats looking like a fashion icon, you now look like a tragic before-and-after hair transplant ad.
You try to mentally prepare yourself for the inevitable roasting session. Someone will compare you to a watermelon. Someone else will take a photo for blackmail purposes. Your younger cousins will have no mercy, pointing at you and laughing like you’re the Eid special comedy show.
Eid, the festival of joy, has become the festival of suffering.
Stage 5: Acceptance
Eventually, you realise there’s nothing you can do. The bad haircut is here to stay, and you’re just going to have to own it.
You start rationalising it. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe you’re the problem. Maybe you just need confidence—after all, if Zayn Malik had this haircut, people would call it “bold” and “fashion-forward.”
And just as you start accepting your fate, just as you make peace with the fact that this is your look for Eid, the final betrayal happens.
Your hair starts growing back. But not in a normal way. The faded parts start blending into an awkward mullet, the uneven sections become even more obvious. By the time Eid morning arrives, it somehow looks even worse than before.
You stare at yourself in the mirror and sigh.
And thus, the cycle continues — until next Eid, when you’ll somehow make the exact same mistake all over again.