The savage daughter: 'I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice'

Part 1: The Heirloom

Mothers pass down family heirlooms to their daughters: a dinner set, a piece of jewellery, a prized possession. In this household, for as long as I can remember, it was the gift of tresses — a veneered lineage.

There was something about the way Mum taught me self-care. It always felt as if she were honouring something she had received from her own mother.

One of my earliest memories is from a morning in our Saudi home. It was blazingly warm, and Mum had just finished in the kitchen before taking a bath. We were getting ready to pick up my elder siblings from school.

She took a gamchha, and I watched her intently as she wrapped her wet hair into a bun. It was a big bun, and the towel seemed impossibly long to me. Whenever I tried drying my own hair, I only ever used a small napkin, so it fascinated me how easily she managed it.

Then she left the room to grab her clothes from the closet. I took one of her georgette ornas, long enough to wrap around me whole, and tied it over my head. My own hair was barely a few inches long. I secured the cloth with a band and tried to make a bun the way she did so effortlessly.

It didn't work. So I tried to braid it instead. But there were only two ends to the cloth. It was frustrating. Still, I didn't give up. I simply wanted to look like her, with long hair, layered over my shoulders. Someday, I thought.

It wasn't until the fifth grade that my hair finally grew to shoulder length. That was when my elder sister began teaching me how to style it beyond just a ponytail.

I always watched Mum and borapu with a kind of wonder when they let their hair flow. It always smelled nice and looked shiny and silky. Mine never quite flowed like that. Most days it looked like I had just been playing in the mud.

And it wasn't until the ninth grade that I finally had truly long hair — long enough that everyone at school knew me as the "girl with the long hair". My dad used to say that anyone can chop off their hair, but the girls in our family should be proud of and protect this honour that is our genes. At the time, it felt like a compliment I didn't quite understand.

Then, during my O-levels, I read The Gift of the Magi and came across the line describing hair that flowed like a "cascade of brown waters." The phrase stayed with me.

But it wasn't until Covid hit that I understood the ties of these tresses.

It wasn't until Mum lost all her hair during her illness that I understood how deeply hair can shape a woman's sense of self.

She had been in recovery at the time. Her hair — nearly four feet long — began to perish, strand by strand, tangling into dreadlocks. One winter morning in 2021, Maa simply said, "I think my hair is dying."

She showed no emotion. But I often wonder about the courage it must have taken for her to walk into a parlour and cut it all off — nearly five decades after being known as the woman with the long, beautiful hair. In her final days, as she believed, her hair grew back… this time, healthier and up to shoulder length. And I laid her to rest as she had asked me to, with her hair draped over her chest.

I will never erase these memories. 

Mum used to follow a care routine. Every day, at the strike of noon, she would bathe and wash her hair with Pantene, only to lather coconut oil over the crown of her head each night — a ritual she described as sleep-inducing. Afterwards she would sit in the living room, always on the same chair, right under the fan.

Only once in her lifetime did she allow me to blow-dry her hair; she refused heat otherwise. Mum had gone grey prematurely, and I will never forget her only dye of choice: Godrej.

Little things she did — never extravagant, but always distinctive.

My mother's glamour lives on.

Maa used to oil my hair once a week when I was a child. Every Friday, without fail. But I have barely done that in the past year or so. It's just… not the same.

Then one day, my aunt sat me down, brushed my hair, oiled it, and braided it. I was in tears. I felt such warmth that I ended up taking a nap afterwards. It is the presence of love that reminds us what we are missing. I am blessed that I get to miss this feeling. I tend to forget that I, too, once had a mother who took care of me, of my hair, and most days, she did so on my behalf.

As this tale suggests, some heirlooms are kept in cupboards and velvet boxes. Others grow quietly with you.

I am my mother's savage daughter

The one who runs barefoot

Cursing sharp stones

I am my mother's savage daughter

I will not cut my hair

I will not lower my voice

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A man holding scissors to cut off a woman's hair in Narayanganj’s Rupganj Upazila, who was tied up, beaten and by locals over accusations of theft. Screengrab

Part 2: The ammo

This is how I grew up associating hair with the soft memory of a graceful woman — something tender, something inherited. But time has a way of muddying meaning. What was once ritual and care can, in another setting, become a tool of humiliation.

A woman's hair is not just her prized possession. In moments of cruelty, it becomes ammunition.

The slow brushing of hair turns to a tug. A tug turns to a drag through the mud. And somewhere in that violent transformation lies the sharp stab to a woman's dignity.

This is a tale of a different woman. She, too, is her mother's daughter. But in the eyes of a mob, she is not quite treated as human. The very thing she holds close — the hair that carries memory, pride, identity — becomes the instrument used to butcher her worth.

In fact, this is not the story of one woman, but three.

'Woman's existence a fight': 272 women and girls faced violence in Jan 2026 alone

In a disturbing incident in Narayanganj's Rupganj Upazila, three women were tied up, beaten and had their hair cut by locals over accusations of theft — an act that has triggered outrage after videos of the incident spread on social media.

The incident occurred on Monday (2 March) morning in the Dohargaon area of Golakandail Union. Police later arrived at the scene and took the three women into custody.

Residents claim the women were caught while attempting to commit theft. But what followed raises urgent questions about justice, dignity and the dangerous ease with which a crowd can turn into a judge and executioner.

According to accounts from the area, a group of locals gathered soon after the accusations surfaced. Instead of handing the matter over to authorities, the crowd allegedly took matters into their own hands. The women were tied with ropes, beaten and subjected to a humiliating form of public punishment — their hair cut off.

In one video clip circulating online, a man is seen cutting a woman's hair with scissors while she pleads desperately for him to stop. Her voice trembles through the recording. The man can also be heard threatening to throw them into a pond.

Whether the accusations of theft hold truth or not, what unfolded that morning stands as a grave violation of human rights. Public humiliation, physical assault and mob punishment cannot be substitutes for due process.

What is perhaps most alarming is the normalisation of such brutality — how quickly a crowd can gather, how easily dignity can be stripped away, and how readily punishment is delivered without law, evidence or restraint.

Because in the end, this was never just about hair being cut.

It was about power — and the terrifying ways it can be wielded against women when the rule of law gives way to the rule of the mob.