Makeover Artist
Day 1:
The Wrong Bus
When I booked my spiritual getaway to Thailand, I had one goal in mind: relax, stretch a little, maybe achieve inner peace between sips of herbal tea. My friends had gone ahead to a yoga retreat, and I was supposed to meet them there. Simple, right?
Wrong.
Somewhere between navigating a sketchy travel website and my complete lack of attention to detail, I managed to book the wrong retreat. Instead of a serene yoga haven, I was now crammed onto a bus full of men—only men—on their way to a monk experience.
I should have noticed sooner. Maybe when I saw the itinerary that included ritual fasting instead of detox smoothies. Or when I realized everyone on the bus was built like a lumberjack and already talking about letting go of worldly attachments.
But no. The realization only hit me when I was wedged between two bearded guys, Lars and Gregor, who were deep in a conversation about the benefits of celibacy.
Celibacy.
“Excited, brother?” Lars asked, nudging me with the kind of enthusiasm only someone willingly giving up pizza and Netflix could have.
“Oh, uh. Definitely,” I mumbled.
Gregor chuckled. “Gotta respect the dedication. Not many young guys would sign up for this.”
Young guys.
Panic crept in. My name, Chris, had passed as masculine. My short hair and baggy sportswear weren’t helping. I glanced down at my loose hoodie and sweatpants. No obvious giveaway. But still—what kind of retreat was this?
I hesitated. “So, uh… remind me—what exactly are we doing again?”
Lars grinned. “Three days of true monk life. Silence, fasting, meditation—”
Gregor cut in. “—ice baths, head shaving, traditional tattooing…”
I froze. Head shaving?
Lars elbowed me. “You’re gonna love it.”
I forced a smile, stomach twisting.
“No refunds, no turning back,” Gregor added.
I turned to stare out the window at the Thai countryside.
No turning back indeed.
Shedding the Ego (and My Hair)
The monastery was beautiful—white stone walls, golden rooftops, and lush green gardens that made the whole place feel like a scene from a movie. But I wasn’t focused on the scenery.
I was focused on the courtyard.
The courtyard with the wooden stools.
The wooden stools where men—one by one—sat to have their heads shaved completely bald.
I watched in horror as a burly guy in front of me stepped forward, knelt before a serene-looking monk, and let the clippers buzz over his scalp. Long strands of dark hair tumbled to the ground, collecting in little piles like fallen leaves. The monk worked with precision, first dragging the razor down the middle, creating an awkward bald strip, then working outward until not a single hair remained.
Another man sat down. Another head shaved.
One after another, they emerged looking like freshly polished eggs.
I swallowed hard.
Lars, ever the optimist, grinned at me. “It’s humbling, isn’t it?”
“Humbling,” I echoed, feeling more like horrifying.
Gregor rolled his shoulders. “Hair is just vanity. This is about letting go of the ego.”
That was easy for him to say. He had a buzz cut to begin with.
The line moved quickly. Too quickly. Before I knew it, I was stepping forward, heart pounding.
A monk gestured for me to sit. I lowered myself onto the wooden stool, hands clenched into fists on my lap. The monk placed a gentle hand on my shoulder—a reassuring gesture, but it did nothing to ease the dread coiling in my stomach.
Then came the first pass of the razor.
A loud buzz, followed by the strange, almost ticklish sensation of hair peeling away from my scalp. I stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the tufts of brown hair drifting to the ground.
The monk worked methodically, dragging the clippers over my head in smooth, deliberate strokes. First the front, revealing a stark, pale strip of scalp. Then the sides, the vibrating razor pressing against my temples. The back was last, and I shivered as the cool air touched my newly exposed skin.
In just minutes, it was over.
The monk dusted off my shoulders and handed me a small mirror. I hesitated before looking.
And there I was. Bald.
My hands shot up instinctively, fingers brushing over the smooth skin where my hair had been. It felt alien, too light, too exposed.
“Wow,” I muttered. “That’s… that’s a choice.”
Lars clapped me on the back. “You look like a real monk now, brother!”
Gregor smirked. “Or a very confused newborn.”
I groaned.
Meditation: The Art of Suffering in Silence
With my scalp now feeling like a freshly waxed peach, we moved on to meditation.
I had imagined meditation as something peaceful. Maybe even refreshing.
It was not.
We were led to a shaded stone platform, where the monks instructed us to sit cross-legged. Simple enough.
Then they told us to stay like that. For an hour. Without moving.
The first ten minutes were fine. I breathed in. I breathed out. Maybe this was going to be good for me.
By minute twenty, my lower back started complaining.
By minute thirty, my knees were screaming in betrayal.
By minute forty, I was convinced I had unlocked a new level of suffering.
All around me, the others remained motionless, their faces blank, their backs straight. I tried to shift just a little—just a tiny adjustment to save my dying legs.
A monk’s voice drifted through the air. “Stillness is the key to inner peace.”
I froze mid-shift.
Inner peace, my ass. My legs were going numb.
I tried to focus on something else. My breathing. The distant sound of a bell. The wind rustling through the trees.
And slowly, something strange happened.
Somewhere between the my body is falling apart stage and the I have transcended pain stage, I started to feel… lighter. My thoughts, usually buzzing like a chaotic beehive, quieted.
Maybe this was doing something.
Maybe, just maybe, I was actually meditating.
Then the bell rang, signaling the end of the session, and I nearly fell over trying to unfold my legs.
A Frugal Feast
After surviving both involuntary baldness and the meditation endurance test, I was starving.
I was imagining a well-earned meal. Something warm. Something filling. Maybe even something—dare I say—delicious.
Instead, we were given bowls of boiled vegetables and rice water.
I stared into my bowl, trying to find the flavor. Any flavor.
Lars, of course, was perfectly content. “Ah, simple and pure. The way food should be.”
Gregor sniffed his bowl. “Tastes like someone boiled a carrot and then had second thoughts about including the carrot.”
I took a cautious bite. Yep. That was definitely what happened.
Lars nudged me. “No attachment to worldly pleasures, remember?”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Detaching really fast.”
We ate in silence, the monks eating in slow, deliberate motions. I tried to mimic them, chewing each bland bite with deep, spiritual meaning.
Instead, all I could think about was pizza.
After dinner, we were guided to our sleeping quarters—long, open-air dormitories with simple wooden beds lined up in perfect rows. No pillows, no mattresses. Just a woven mat, a thin blanket, and the promise of back pain.
I dropped onto my assigned bed, staring up at the ceiling. “This is going to be a long three days.”
Lars, ever the optimist, grinned. “It’s all part of the experience.”
Gregor, less optimistic, poked at his mat. “This experience better come with a chiropractor.”
I sighed, rolling onto my side. My newly shaved scalp rubbed against the rough fabric of the blanket. The sensation was weird—like having Velcro where my hair used to be.
But the real problem wasn’t the bed.
The real problem was the bathing situation.
Day 2:
The Bathhouse Problem
I had successfully hidden my gender so far, but one thing was looming over me like a very bald storm cloud—public baths.
The monastery had a communal bathhouse: a large, open-air space with stone tubs filled with ice-cold water straight from the nearby mountains. The men were already stripping down, completely unbothered by the idea of shared nudity and subzero temperatures.
I, on the other hand, was extremely bothered.
There was no way I could undress without giving myself away. I needed a plan.
I had successfully avoided bathing, citing exhaustion and a deep desire for personal space. But this morning, as we finished our sunrise meditation, one of the older monks clapped his hands together.
“Before breakfast, we cleanse.”
My heart dropped.
I was about as ready for this as a cat is for a forced bath.
I needed an escape plan. Fast.
Gregor, my ever-enthusiastic German retreat buddy, clapped me on the back. “Time to refresh the soul, brother!”
Brother. Right. I nodded quickly, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “You know… I think my soul is already pretty refreshed.”
Lars, my other accomplice, grinned. “Come on, man. You stink like inner peace and regret.”
He wasn’t wrong.
But I was more concerned about getting caught than smelling like an abandoned sock.
So, as the group headed toward the bathhouse, I did what any reasonable person would do—I faked a sudden spiritual breakthrough.
“Wait,” I said, halting dramatically. “I… I need a moment of solitude.”
The monks nodded in solemn approval. Lars and Gregor, however, looked at me with suspicion.
“Solitude?” Gregor raised an eyebrow. “Now?”
I pressed a hand to my chest, channeling every ounce of fake enlightenment I had gained over the past three days. “I feel… a deep calling. I must… reflect.”
The monks murmured approvingly.
Lars squinted. “You just don’t want to get naked in front of us.”
“Of course not,” I said, deeply offended. “I just have to, you know, absorb the lessons of silence.”
Gregor nodded slowly. “Ah. A deep moment of introspection.”
“Yes. Very deep.”
“…Or you’re hiding something.”
I gave them my best mysterious monk stare. “Aren’t we all hiding something, Gregor?”
That did the trick.
They let me slip away, leaving me to not bathe in peace.
Tattoos and Unexpected Wisdom
As we finished another round of my legs are dying meditation, we were taken to a quiet room where an elderly monk sat with a tray of ink and bamboo needles.
Traditional Sak Yant tattoos. Sacred symbols of protection and strength.
I had no idea what design I was getting. No one did. The monk chose for us, based on what he “felt” we needed.
One by one, the men sat down, gritting their teeth as the ink was hand-tapped into their skin. No machines. Just a long bamboo stick, sharp at the tip, rhythmically puncturing flesh.
I watched as intricate symbols took shape—delicate yet powerful patterns etched into shoulders and backs.
Then it was my turn.
I knelt before the monk, trying not to flinch as the needle made its first sting.
The pain wasn’t unbearable, but it was sharp, a constant, rhythmic tapping. I focused on my breathing, on the scent of incense curling through the air, on the faint hum of chanting in the distance.
Somewhere between the pain and the trance-like rhythm of the needle, my thoughts quieted.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t overthinking. I wasn’t panicking.
I was just there.
Maybe that was the whole point.
When it was done, I looked at my shoulder, where a small, intricate symbol now marked my skin.
Lars leaned over, examining it. “Nice. That one’s for resilience.”
Gregor smirked. “You’ll need it for tomorrow’s fasting.”
I groaned.
I was already starving.
Day 3:
Personal Enlightenment (Or Something Like It)
To avoid getting caught in the baths, I wandered the temple grounds, taking a moment to reflect.
And by reflect, I mean I had another chance to scratch my freshly shaved head.
Let me tell you—there are no words to describe the strange, oddly satisfying sensation of rubbing your own bald scalp for the first time, and the second, and the third…
It was soft.
It was smooth.
It was also deeply confusing.
Three days ago, I had hair. Now? Now I was aerodynamic.
Was this… transformation?
Was this… enlightenment?
Or had I just made the single greatest mistake of my life?
Hard to say.
But as I stood there, feeling the morning breeze against my bare head, I had to admit—it was kind of nice.
Like my thoughts weren’t getting tangled in hair anymore.
Like my brain had been… decluttered.
Like I had been Marie Kondo-ed into monkhood.
Would I keep it this way? Probably not.
But for now, I was embracing it.
The Hunger Games: Monk Edition
As I meditated I came to the conclusion I had truly become one with the monks. Not in a spiritual sense—oh no, I was still thinking about burgers and Wi-Fi—but physically? I had crossed the point of no return.
I had the shaved head.
I had the tattoo.
I had the thousand-yard stare of a person who had spent three days living on rice and deep thoughts.
But most importantly? I was still undercover.
And let me tell you, maintaining this secret monk identity was getting harder by the minute.
Day three meant fasting. No food until sundown.
My stomach protested within the first hour. By midday, I was considering whether eating a single leaf would count as breaking the sacred code.
The monks, meanwhile, seemed unaffected. They moved with the same quiet grace, as if hunger was just a minor inconvenience, like forgetting your umbrella in a rainstorm.
Lars was holding strong. Gregor, however, was suffering alongside me.
“This is cruel,” he muttered as we swept the courtyard.
I nodded, too weak to respond.
By evening, when we were finally given small bowls of rice, I had never been so grateful for anything in my life.
Gregor nudged me.
“Well, Chris. You did it.”
I blinked. “Did what?”
“You survived.”
Lars grinned. “Yeah. You came in looking like a lost tourist, and now you look…” He gestured vaguely at my shaved head and robes. “Like someone who chose this life.”
I snorted. “Bold of you to assume I chose any of this.”
Gregor smirked. “So? Did you find enlightenment?”
I poked at my rice, thinking.
“Well,” I said slowly. “I learned that hunger makes you rethink every decision you’ve ever made.”
Lars chuckled. “And?”
“And that sitting cross-legged for too long is a form of torture.”
Gregor nodded solemnly. “Truth.”
“And,” I added, rubbing my head again, “that hair is a luxury I took for granted.”
Lars laughed. “So you’ll be keeping the monk look?”
I shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m embracing impermanence.”
Gregor grinned. “Very monk-like answer.”
I smirked. “See? Three days in, and I’m already wise.”
Lars rolled his eyes. “So wise, yet so unwilling to bathe.”
I raised my bowl in mock toast. “To spiritual cleanliness.”
Gregor clinked his bowl against mine. “And to the best mistake you’ve ever made.”
As I took a bite of my bland, monk-approved meal, I had to admit—he might be right.
The next morning, the retreat ended.
I had survived. Somehow.
Last day:
As we boarded the bus, Gregor nudged me. “You know, I thought you were crazy for going through with this. But you handled it.”
I smirked. “Monk material?”
“Absolutely not.”
Lars grinned. “But resilient. Which is close enough.”
As the bus pulled away, I caught my reflection in the window—bald, tattooed, exhausted.
And, against all odds… kind of peaceful.
Maybe I hadn’t found enlightenment.
But I had found something.
Even if it was just an appreciation for pizza and hot showers.
