Charitable Desires: The Razor’s Edge of Reason

Prologue

The very notion of it made my stomach churn, a bitter, acidic taste rising in my throat. A charity headshaving event? On our campus? I simply could not grasp it. Why, for the love of all that was logical, would friends and family pledge money for women with glorious, flowing hair to have it shorn bald, all so the proceeds could buy wigs for people who had lost their hair? It was a circular, self-defeating absurdity that grated against every pragmatic fibre of my being.

‘But then the women who are shaved bald will need wigs too, won’t they?’ I had asked, my voice edged with exasperation, during one of the planning meetings. ‘Why don’t those pledging money just use it to buy wigs directly for those in need?’

The responses were always the same, accompanied by a dismissive wave of the hand or a patronising smile. ‘Stop being silly, Alicia!’ Jennifer, our chairperson, chuckled with a dismissive wave. ‘It is not just about the headshaving. It is about encouraging solidarity! Creating awareness! Enhancing community spirit!’

“Community spirit”, I thought, as a shiver traced its way down my spine, felt suspiciously like public humiliation in this context. Yet, the Assembly of Students Events Committee, in its infinite wisdom, had selected this grotesque spectacle for our annual charity drive. And, as always, Jennifer required the rest of us to make it so!

Avoidance

My hair, I must admit, was my pride and joy. A living part of me, that defined me. It was a cascade of dark, burnished auburn, thick and glossy, reaching well past my waist, easily long enough to sit on if I was careless. As I habitually wore my hair loose, accidents did happen, but it was a small price to pay for enjoying such a blessing of matchless individuality.

In the context of our planned event, the thought of having scissors touch my hair, let alone a razor, was truly abhorrent. So, I had resolved to maintain my distance from the proceedings, saving my altruistic desires until a less controversial event needed my skills.

Whenever questioned by my friends for my uncharacteristic lack of involvement, I would quip “just in case” as I theatrically grabbed my hair, holding it safely against my body. I would never risk my hair when the legendary impetuousness of my fellow students might bubble over.

However, my famed organisational abilities, a double-edged sword as it often was, eventually drew me into the periphery of the event. I reluctantly agreed to manage the registrations for entrants, a role that promised to keep me as far from the intolerable buzzing blades as possible.

Registration

On the day of the event, I positioned a table just inside the doorway to the hall. I neatly laid out my checklist, pens, and other necessary paraphernalia. I added a pile of blank sponsorship forms for any woman crazy enough to agree to take part while the event was in progress.

My duties were straightforward. Check the entrant and their sponsors had completed each form correctly and verify the hair was sufficiently long to take part. Although not an event requirement, I meticulously kept a running total of the collective length that was destined for removal, a detail that felt morbidly fascinating. Then, with all conditions met, I would tick the entrant’s name off the list, assigning each woman a number. That would dictate the order in which they would make their sad appearance on stage.

A knot of guilt tightened in my chest with each long-haired woman who approached my table. A considerable number had hair as long as, or even longer than, mine. I always wore my hair loose, a shimmering curtain framing my face, flowing like a waterfall down my back, emphasising my unique identity. But on this day, seeing the nervous glances, the hesitant smiles, the faint tremors in the hands clutching sponsor forms, I wondered if I should have restrained my abundant and safe tresses in a bun or a braid.

Was it cruel to flaunt my untouched length in front of those about to lose theirs? Probably. I was not usually so insensitive, but I left it loose anyway. It was my informed choice to do so, as it was the entrants misguided choice to sacrifice theirs. Deep down, I decided that I needed that visible barrier, a constant reminder of what I still possessed that set me apart from the madness.

One student, a delicate-looking girl with hair so incredibly long it brushed her knees when she stood, approached my table. Her name was Chloe, and her eyes, wide and apprehensive, glimmered with a mixture of fear and forced resolve.

‘Chloe,’ I found myself saying, my voice softening, as my pen hovered over the checklist. ‘Your hair … it is truly magnificent. Are you completely certain about doing this? You do not have to go through with it, you know.’

A spark of relief, previously missing, flittered in Chloe’s eyes.

My words were barely out before Jennifer, the event organiser – a woman who embodied the very essence of zealous, unyielding determination – swooped in. ‘Alicia!’ she snapped, her voice cutting through the gentle hum of the crowd. ‘There will be no discouraging of the participants! Everyone here is doing this for a worthy cause!’

Chloe, her eyes now downcast, simply nodded. I ticked her off my list and she took the number I offered, before moving on, the spark of relief snuffed out.

Jennifer had reprimanded me – humiliated me – in front of everyone, like a child caught raiding the cookie jar. She had so incensed me that I nearly stormed out of the hall, leaving her to it, but my sense of loyalty prevailed.

Pressure

A short while later, a couple of women lecturers with wine glasses in their hands, cornered me while I sat at my table. Both sported utilitarian masculine haircuts that exhibited little fashion sense. Their baggy, unattractive outfits fell into the same category.

Fuelled by alcohol, they were annoyingly pushy, their words laced with a condescending challenge. ‘Alicia, with hair like that, you should be registering yourself! Imagine all the donations you would get. From everyone here. People like us, who would love to see you bald!’

I stiffened, making it unequivocally clear that my responsibilities ended with the event paperwork. My hair was sacred.

As the start time for the headshaving approached, the atmosphere thickened with a peculiar blend of excitement and intense peer pressure. Beer and wine added to the heady mix. A low, insistent hum, like a hive preparing for a strange, ritualistic harvest, filled the room.

Friends prodded their long-haired companions, urging them to get sponsored, to join the line. Further sponsors identified themselves, hastily adding their pledges to existing forms. Excitable “friends”, keen to see their mates shaved bald, asked me for spare sponsorship forms. I found myself signing up five surprised, late entrants, who may not have even seen their own sponsorship forms! A cruel madness was enveloping the hall.

At the final reckoning, astonishingly, there were thirty-two souls ready for shearing.

Recruitment

On stage, a striking woman of around thirty was engaged in what looked like an urgent, tense conversation with Jennifer, the organiser. I deduced she was the barber for the proceedings as she leant proprietorially against one of the two barber’s chairs, arranged side-by-side in the middle of the stage.

The barber’s outfit was as provocative as her half-shaved, asymmetric haircut, bleached white blonde and suffused with red streaks. She wore a leather miniskirt, a lace camisole with a plunging neckline, and knee-high boots. She looked worried, her brow furrowed. Jennifer, too, held her arms up in dismay. Then her gaze swept across the room, settling on me, tidying up the last of the registration documents at the back of the hall. A terrifying smile, predatory and knowing, spread across her face.

Jennifer almost ran over towards me, her steps purposeful, her eyes fixed on me. I urgently looked around me, assessing alternative escape routes. ‘Alicia, now that you’ve completed the registrations, we desperately need your help!’

My heart plummeted straight into my stomach as I recalled her tense conversation on stage with the barber. My instant, dreadful assumption was that one of the entrants had pulled out, and Jennifer, in her boundless enthusiasm, was about to cajole or trick me into offering my own hair.

‘No!’ I declared, my voice sharper than intended, my foot stamping on the wooden floor. ‘I have done my share for this event, Jennifer,’ I asserted boldly, preparing to leave. ‘I am not having my hair shaved off!’

Jennifer burst into a breathless chuckle. ‘No, no, Alicia, it’s not that!’ The relief that flooded through me was so potent it made my knees weak. ‘The barber’s colleague could not make it today, so she is on her own. It will take her ages to shave everyone. She needs someone to help. She says it is easy enough; someone can learn after watching her do it once.’

I sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation of pure relief, although I did not know of anyone who could step in to the absent barber’s shoes. ‘I see, but who can do it?’ I asked, my voice still a little wobbly, not genuinely interested in finding anyone, still thankful that my own glorious mane would remain entirely safe and untouched.

‘You will, Alicia!’ Jennifer’s grin widened, a flash of white teeth. ‘We are all busy doing other things,’ she claimed, and I raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Rounding up the entrants, escorting them up on stage, preventing them backing out, sweeping up the clippings, and consoling the victims afterwards,’ she claimed, without seeing anything wrong with her cruel terminology. ‘But you have finished with the registration. So, you will be Mel’s apprentice barber for the day, Alicia!’

The only thing I could think of as horrific as having my own hair cut, was cutting off the long hair of another poor soul. But, before I could object, Jennifer seized my hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and began to drag me towards the stage. I protested all the way, a desperate litany of ‘I can’t do it!’ and ‘This isn’t fair!’ I pulled against her, but Jennifer was implacable, her fingers like steel around my wrist. She pulled me onto the brightly lit stage, the cheers of the crowd suddenly overwhelming. Jennifer introduced me to Mel, the barber, who offered me a curt nod and a tight, professional smile.

‘Right, Alicia, I will explain each step as I go with the first one,’ Mel said, her voice surprisingly relaxed amidst all the chaos. ‘And you will watch closely.’

‘Fine,’ I lied, standing awkwardly next to her, feeling exposed under the harsh stage lights. I was acutely aware of my hair flowing over my bare shoulders and down my back. Furthermore, the short floral dress I had chosen that morning felt utterly inappropriate. On this occasion, I wished I had taken a moment to either braid my hair or conceal it in an updo. But it was too late.

‘Right, Jennifer, let’s have the first victim,’ Mel smirked.

Overture

‘Number 1!’ Jennifer yelled eagerly, calling the first woman forward, her companions giving her an encouraging nudge towards the stage. How could so-called “friends” be so cruel, I wondered.

Jennifer gestured for the woman to sit in one of the barber’s chairs, guiding her by her shoulders when she was a little hesitant. Mel, with no word of introduction, flicked open a white haircutting cape and allowed it to settle over “number 1”. The woman’s eyes widened as the audience below her fell quiet, looking up at her expectantly, waiting for the horror show to begin.

My stomach clenched as I watched Mel. She gathered the poor woman’s incredibly long hair, a rich, dark mane, into a thick ponytail at the nape of her neck. My breath hitched as she lifted a huge pair of scissors from the table next to the chair, their blades glinting under the lights. She placed them around the hair and, theatrically, paused as she took in everyone in the hall.

The victim screwed up her eyes, followed by an indistinct whine. Then, with a resounding crunch, Mel squeezed the blades together. The sound was shockingly loud, even above the temporarily subdued chatter from below. Mel raised her arm, brandishing the severed ponytail above her head, displaying it like a trophy. It had been a vast, heavy bundle of life … but it was now lifeless.

The crowd roared its approval, a strange, primeval sound. With a flourish, Mel tossed the huge hank of hair into a large plastic crate at the back of the stage. A wave of nausea washed over me.

Then came the shaving. Slowly, methodically, Mel worked the hairclippers over the woman’s head, stripping away the remaining fuzz until the scalp was almost bare. Then, using a foil shaver, she smoothed the lingering shadow until her head gleamed like polished marble. Finally, she massaged a slick, amber oil into the newly revealed scalp, making it shine brightly under the stage lights.

I gulped, my throat suddenly dry. It was a dramatic, almost brutal transformation. The woman, initially looking vulnerable, now stood, her bald head shockingly prominent. But she did not look terrible. In fact, unexpectedly, she looked attractive, striking. The starkness of her new appearance somehow enhanced her features, drawing attention to her eyes, her lips, the elegant line of her neck.

And then, while I studied her closely, it happened. Something in me shifted. A massive, undeniable jolt, like an electric current, shot through me. It was not a jolt of shock, or even revulsion. Put simply, her stark appearance turned me on. A strange, powerful thrill. My cheeks flushed, hot and crimson.

I found myself staring, mesmerised, at her smooth, gleaming scalp. Although I was on stage and in full view of the whole audience, I experienced a ridiculous, overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the woman’s scalp, to feel the cool, sleek curve of it. I swiftly drew my encroaching fingers back, blushing furiously, terrified someone would have noticed.

And then, a deeper, more unsettling realisation hit me. The thought of being the one to shave the next “victim” excited me even more. The thought of wielding that power, of orchestrating such a profound transformation, was mesmerising.

Beginner

Mel’s voice cut through my swirling thoughts. She pointed a slender finger at the spare set of tools on the table beside us. ‘Your turn,’ she said, and a slight smirk played on her lips. Jennifer called out, ‘Number 2!’, as her eyes searched the audience with laser-guided precision.

There was commotion half-way back in the crowd and two large women were propelling forward a much slender figure who appeared unsure where she should go. My breath caught. It was Chloe. The girl I had tried to dissuade when she registered.

Jennifer hopped off the stage, grabbed Chloe’s wrist, and pulled her over to me and Mel. She stood awkwardly, trying to face me, as Jennifer battled to spin her around by the chair to facilitate her sitting.

Out of the corner of her mouth, Chloe whispered, ‘I’ve been thinking about what you were saying earlier and -’

‘Sit down, please,’ Jennifer interrupted, deliberately so I imagined, not wishing Chloe to reassess her decision. ‘Alicia!’ she urged, as Mel passed me a neatly folded cape.

Chloe, as she stumbled into the chair, tried again. ‘You were right … I am not sure I -’

I flicked open the cape, with surprising expertise, a resounding snap like a whip accompanying my action. In response, Chloe jumped in the chair, and her lament drying up.

I knew I should hear her out. After all, it was I who put the doubts in her mind. But, in my mind, I reviewed what Mel had just accomplished, and that gave me the resolve to ignore Chloe and focus on what lay ahead. So, I allowed the cape to billow over Chloe, further distracting her, as it settled over her slender body.

I fastened the cape securely around her neck, struggling a little under the mass of hair tumbling over her shoulder and down her back. As I smoothed the cape and stood back to prepare for the next stage, I caught her earnestly staring at me. Her eyes were still wide, still apprehensive, her long, astonishingly beautiful hair flowing around her, pooling at her feet, thick and golden. I was mesmerised, lost in the moment.

Mel gave me a gentle push forward. ‘I will watch and guide you with this one. Then, we can do the rest, like a team, in parallel.’

‘Thanks,’ I murmured distractedly, not really absorbing all her words but somehow liking the idea of being part of her team.

Severance

I was experiencing an odd, but exhilarating, surge of pleasure coursing through me as I looked down on Chloe. She was the one I had worried about the most during the registration process. The one who appeared most vulnerable. The one I had tried to save. However, my hands, which had felt clumsy and reluctant moments before, now felt strangely competent, almost eager.

I reached for Chloe’s hair, my fingers tangling in the impossibly soft, fine strands. It was heavier than I expected, a living curtain of gold. I gathered it, pulling it taut, forming a massive ponytail at her nape. It felt immense, a significant weight in my hands. The huge scissors, when I picked them up, felt surprisingly natural in my hand.

I took a deep breath, the chatter of the crowd, the lights, the music, all fading into a dull roar. There was only Chloe, her hair, and the sharp glint of the blades. With a grand, decisive motion, I brought the scissors down with an abrupt chomping sound. The decisive noise punctuated the sudden silence that seemed to have fallen around me. The ponytail, thick as my forearm, separated cleanly. The operation felt empowering, leaving me with an odd, but delightful, sense of triumph and purpose.

I held my prize high, just as Mel had done, a vast glorious bundle of golden hair. The crowd erupted, a wave of cheers washing over me. A surge of almost primitive satisfaction swelled in my chest. I did not just toss it into the bin as Mel had done, but I placed it there carefully and reverently, adding to the growing pile.

Vibration

Then I picked up the hairclippers. They felt alien to my existence and, given the length of my hair, a scary piece of equipment that I had deliberately avoided throughout my life. Although feeling heavy in my hand, my palm and fingers moulded themselves naturally around the metallic body. The serrated blade glinted under the lights as if encouraging me to set the teeth in motion. I flicked the switch, and a loud hum reached my ears. I felt an insistent vibration in my palm. Licking my lips, I moved the pulsing blade to Chloe’s forehead.

Chloe flinched slightly as the buzzing blade touched her hairline. I cupped the back of her head, gripping tufts of her hair, adjusted its position and holding it firmly in place. Slowly, I eased the hairclippers backwards across Chloe’s scalp and I wondrously observed a path of white skin emerging, marking the blade’s relentless passage over her crown and down to her nape.

I carefully, meticulously, worked my way around her head, watching as the golden strands fell away, revealing more of the pale, vulnerable skin beneath. Each pass of the clippers felt like an unveiling, a stripping away of identity to reveal something raw and new.

A strange, detached focus settled over me. I was not thinking of Chloe’s feelings, only of the task in hand and the emerging shape of her bare head. Slowly, methodically, I worked the hairclippers over her, stripping away the remaining bristles until Chloe’s scalp was almost bare.

Hum

Once the clippers had done their work, I picked up the foil shaver. I pressed the device’s shining mesh against Chloe’s scalp, smoothing, refining, eliminating every last trace of hair. Her head felt surprisingly soft, warm under my touch. As the final stubble disappeared, her scalp shone, smooth and bare, gleaming like a billiard ball.

My hand reached instinctively for the bottle of oil. I poured a small amount into my palm, warming it, then began to massage it into Chloe’s newly exposed scalp. The sensation was marvellous! The cool, slick oil against her smooth, warm skin felt delicious. My fingers lingered, tracing the curves of her skull, feeling the bone beneath the soft skin. It was intensely pleasurable, and incredibly sensual.

‘That’s enough, Alicia,’ Mel whispered, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. Her voice cut through my trance. Oblivious to the watching crowd, I had been luxuriating in the delightful sensation for far too long. Pulling my hands away, a faint blush returned to my cheeks, but this time it was not from embarrassment, but from a lingering, potent thrill.

I could not believe I was enjoying myself so much. I struggled to understand why the horrible thing I was doing to these poor women was turning me on. Yet, the evidence was undeniable. Observing the marble-like surface that I had created out of Chloe’s wayward tresses was a feeling so primeval, so utterly satisfying.

I experienced a sense of lingering disappointment that I had finished with Chloe, but then hers was the first head I had shaved.

‘Don’t worry, Alicia, you will always remember your first one,’ Mel chuckled quietly, reading my mind. I smiled back.

Whisking away the cape that covered Chloe, she scrambled unsteadily to her feet on shaking legs. Although Chloe was leaving, I took great consolation from the simple fact that the “friends” of other long-haired women in the audience were encouraging them forward, towards the stage.

I avoided eye contact with Chloe, but I felt her hot breath behind me. ‘I had changed my mind,’ she hissed defiantly. ‘You should have helped me …’

‘Thank you,’ I acknowledged coldly without turning around, ignoring her assertion, despite a slither of guilt threatening to overwhelm me.

‘Numbers 3 and 4!’ Jennifer called out, breaking my lingering connection with Chloe. She – “Number 2” – scampered off the stage, her gleaming dome shining like a beacon amongst the crowd that consoled her.

Encore

On stage, Mel and I made a contrasting pair. Mel, with her cropped hair and provocative dress sense, looking every inch the seasoned barber. And I, Alicia, with my hair still flowing down my back, over my bare shoulders, in my short floral minidress, looking like an unlikely barber’s apprentice, yet performing with an astonishing, newfound proficiency.

‘You’re a natural,’ Mel whispered to me, her eyes glinting with amusement.

As we continued to shear, inevitably, there were tears. There were women who sobbed quietly, and others who openly wept as we shaved their heads. But I forced myself to act cold and detached, pretending not to notice. I fixed my gaze on the emerging shape of the scalp, on the clean, definitive lines of the shave. My focus was on completing what was necessary; the creation of yet another perfect, shining bald dome. The satisfaction of each completed head leaving the stage was immense, building upon the previous one.

The image of the overflowing collection bin, a magnificent, vibrant kaleidoscope of severed ponytails – golden, black, brown, auburn – was an astonishing sight that I would never forget.

By the end of the afternoon, with all thirty-two women now transformed, Jennifer lined them up on stage together, displaying their bald, shining heads. Whether it was to show solidarity, demonstrate care in the community, or simply a photo opportunity for social media, I was unsure. For me, the act was more personal. I felt an almost unbearable ache of excitement. My skin tingled, my heart pounded. I was desperate to get home, to relive every moment, every sensation, to pleasure myself as I excitedly recalled what I had done.

Epilogue

Once Jennifer had thanked the freshly shaved women, I stepped forward and grabbed the microphone. ‘The estimated total length for all the hair collected,’ I announced, my voice clear and strong, ‘has passed the glorious twenty-five metre milestone! I fact, we have harvested twenty-seven metres and fifty-three centimetres of magnificent hair to help those less fortunate!’ A deafening roar erupted from the crowd, a tidal wave of cheers and applause that vibrated through me, intensifying the thrill.

It was then Jennifer reminded everyone that a video of the event would be available online shortly. My heart soared. I looked forward to watching myself on stage, reliving every delicious moment of my glorious three hours of fame. The power, the transformation, the primal satisfaction.

‘You really are a natural,’ Mel whispered again, as we stood proudly on stage, accepting the praise Jennifer directed towards us, the barbers, for our exceptional work. ‘I usually do one of these a month somewhere around the city. Alicia, would you like to be my regular apprentice barber?’

I was astonished … for a split second. What a preposterous notion to suggest to a long-haired student who truly values her own locks. It had been an interesting experience, foisted on me by an enthusiastic and pushy colleague. But the idea of shaving women’s heads regularly was, of course, ridiculous.

Slowly a wide, genuine smile spread across my face, a smile that felt a little too wide, a little too predatory. ‘I would love that, Mel,’ I said, the words slipping out like silk, full of a hunger I had not known I possessed.

A new world, a new power, had just opened up to me, and I was ready to fully embrace it … ponytails, clippers, and shaver!

To Be Continued