The worst was the office cricket league that evening. Rohan, a reliable number three batsman known for his defensive blocks, walked out to the crease. The opposition bowler, a fast-talking kid named Akash, took one look at Rohan’s new hair and grinned.

Tiwari-ji paused, comb mid-air. He looked at Rohan’s receding temples and soft, office-worker pallor. Then he looked at the photo Priya had texted Rohan. He sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand failed makeovers.

Humiliated, Rohan went home and stood in front of the mirror. He looked ridiculous. The aggressive fade, the demanding spikes, the cowlick of shame. He was not Virat Kohli. He never would be. He was Rohan Mehta, who liked butter chicken and spreadsheets. And for the first time in a decade, that felt perfectly fine.