Bouffant Shave
It was 1961, and Gladys wore her bouffant bubble hairdo like a badge of honor. She and Ray scraped by in a faded house near the factory where he wrestled machinery, but that hair—when she teased it high and glossy—was his kryptonite. At 5:30, he’d barrel in, tie loose, hands smudged with grease, and she’d be waiting, her chestnut bouffant aglow under the kitchen light. “Hell, Gladys,” he’d rasp, fixated on it, “that hair’s gonna bury me.” Then he’d pick—missionary on their sagging bed, a BJ with her knelt on the linoleum, or sodomizing her by the sink, her bouffant shuddering with every thrust. She lived for it, for his raw want, the way that hair lit him up but stayed a sacred tease.
Money squeezed them tight, though. The beauty parlor’s $2.50 fee limited her to Marge’s chair every two weeks. For a few days, she’d strut like a starlet, but by day three, the bouffant snagged—brushing frayed it, pillows dented it despite her satin scarf. Ray deserved her best, so she turned crafty. At 8 p.m., after the supper dishes were stacked, she’d lean over the kitchen sink and wash her hair with Prell shampoo, its crisp, piney tang rising as the bouffant melted into slick strands. Then she’d draw a bath, steam curling as she sank in, her mint-green work caddy—Ray’s handiwork—spanning the tub. In its basket: magnetic curlers, Dippity-do gel, clips, a comb, a mirror, and a hairnet.
Her hair was step one. She’d scoop the cool, thick gel and twirl a damp curl around a curler, winding it tight to her scalp, pinning it with a sharp click. Row by row, she’d grid her head, shaping the back by feel through the mirror’s haze. When every curl was pinned, she’d mist Elnett hairspray over it, the sweet, floral cloud stiffening the rollers into place. A black mesh hairnet stretched over the lot, pinned taut—not for the bouffant yet, but for the morning’s tease. Then she’d lean back, water lapping her skin, and revel in her true joy—shaving everything below her head, slow and thorough, until she was squeaky clean. She’d caught Ray muttering once, half-lit on beer, that he loved her “shaved all below the bouffant,” and she’d stretched it to mean eyebrows too.
She’d start with her legs, one propped on the tub’s rim, water dripping off her shin. The razor—a pearl-handled safety blade Ray kept sharp—glided up her leg, its shhht cutting the quiet. Stubble sloughed off, leaving a glossy trail from ankle to knee, then up her thigh, the blade tracing every curve until her skin shone bare. She’d rinse it, hairs swirling in the water, and repeat on the other leg, each stroke a slow vow of smoothness.
Her arms followed—not just the pits, but everything. She’d stretch one arm out, taut from wrist to shoulder, and drag the razor up, peeling fine, dark hairs in long, steady sweeps. The blade purred, cool against her warmth, until her forearm and bicep gleamed hairless. Under her arm, she’d tilt into the hollow, shaving the thicker fuzz with short, careful flicks, the hairs floating free. She’d switch arms, mirroring the ritual, her fingers steering the steel until both were slick, squeaky to the touch.
Then her face—those eyebrows Ray’s words had snagged. She’d wipe the mirror, lean forward, water sloshing, and press the razor to one brow. Tiny strokes shaved it bare, soft hairs drifting as the blade skimmed her skin, leaving a smooth, stark arch. She’d rinse, check her work, and shave the other, her face sharpening into clean, bold planes. She loved the raw purity of it.
Last was below her waist. She’d part her thighs, water rippling, and start at the mound, dragging the razor down in a firm, slow line. The shhht-shhht hummed as coarse hair fell away, baring flushed skin. She’d work outward, shaving over the folds, along the inner thighs, each stroke precise until every inch was stripped. She’d test with her fingers, chasing strays with gentle flicks, the blade kissing her clean. When done, she was flawless—legs, arms, brows, and all below, squeaky clean from neck to toes, just as Ray craved.
She’d set the razor down, hands steady, and sink into the tub, the water cradling her polished body. At 9 p.m., she’d climb out, towel off, and pad to bed, her head a crown of curlers under the net, her bouffant still a morning promise. She’d slip under the quilt in her cotton nightie, her shaved skin cool against the sheets, and Ray would turn to her, eyes glinting in the dark. “You’re a sight, Glad,” he’d murmur, his rough hand grazing her bare arm, her naked brow.
Some nights, that wasn’t the end. Ray, still buzzing from their earlier tangle, would want a second go at his curlered, shaved-smooth wife. He’d roll toward her, his breath hot on her neck, and tug her nightie up, fingers tracing the hairless expanse of her thigh. “Smooth as glass,” he’d mutter, voice thick, as he climbed over her. The curlers clacked faintly under the net as he pressed her into the mattress, her legs parting, shaved skin sliding against his coarse hair. He’d take her missionary-style, slow at first, his hands gripping her hips, marveling at the sleek feel of her—no stubble, no roughness, just pure, squeaky-clean flesh. The bed creaked, the curlers jostled, and she’d arch into him, loving the contrast—his rough palms on her polished legs, his stubble scraping her shaved brows as he kissed her forehead. He’d speed up, grunting, the netted curlers bouncing with each thrust, until he shuddered and collapsed, spent, her smooth body a map he’d conquered again. “You’re too much, Glad,” he’d pant, rolling off, while she smiled, curlers intact, ready to tease that bouffant come dawn—and stoke his fire all over.
Each evening was a repeat, a quiet joy that Gladys wrapped herself in like a warm shawl. The shampoo with Prell, the bath, the curlers, the shaving—every step a ritual that left her squeaky clean and ready for Ray. And some nights, when his hunger flared again, he’d take her a second time, her curlered head jostling under the net, her shaved-smooth body a canvas for his rough hands. But the real magic came in the morning, after Ray’s breakfast of eggs and toast was cleared and the house chores—dusting, sweeping, wiping down the counters—were ticked off her list. That’s when Gladys would retreat to her bathroom, her private salon, and turn the night’s promise into the day’s triumph.
She’d perch on a stool by the vanity, the basket of magnetic curlers still damp from the bath, and begin. With a flick of her wrist, she’d unpin the black mesh hairnet, letting it fall to the counter like a shed skin. Then, one by one, she’d pluck the curlers free, starting at the crown. Each roller popped loose with a faint tink, the tight, gel-stiffened curls springing out as she dropped the pins into the basket. Her head felt lighter with every release, the soreness from sleeping on them—a nagging ache at her scalp—easing as the grid unraveled. When the last curler clattered into the pile, her hair was a wild tumble of glossy spirals, ready for the real work.
She’d grab her boar-bristle brush, its worn handle fitting her palm like an old friend, and start brushing out the set. Long, upward strokes lifted the curls, blending them into a lofty cloud. She’d pause every few passes, reaching for the Elnett hairspray—its floral mist a luxury she savored—and spritz the rising mass, locking the height in stages. The air grew thick with the sweet scent, the mirror catching the shimmer of each spray as her hair swelled higher. Then came the shift: she’d swap the brush for a fine-tooth comb and dive into extreme backcombing. Section by section, she’d tease the underside, raking the comb down toward her scalp in short, fierce strokes. The hair puffed up, each pass building a dense, cotton-candy texture—light yet firm, a scaffolding of curls. She’d spray again, the Elnett hissing as it coated the teased layers, her hands moving fast to keep the shape. The bathroom echoed with the scritch-scratch of the comb, the sharp bursts of spray, until her head was a towering mound.
Finally, she’d smooth the top. With the comb’s edge, she’d glide over the surface, taming the wildness into a sleek, rounded shell, the backcombed core hidden beneath. Another blast of Elnett—generous this time—sealed it, the hairspray hardening the bouffant into a rigid, perfect bubble. She’d tilt her head, inspecting the mirror from every angle, the chestnut mass gleaming like spun sugar. “Lovely,” she’d say, her voice soft, her still-browless face beaming back at her.
Next came the makeup, her second act of alchemy. She’d dip a tiny brush into a pot of black eyebrow pomade, sketching thin, arched brows where the razor had stripped her clean. Each stroke was deliberate, the lines sharp and high, framing her eyes with a dramatic swoop. Then the eyeliner—liquid, coal-black, with a pointed applicator she wielded like a painter. She’d stretch her lid taut, drawing a thick, winged line along her lashes, flicking it upward at the corner into a bold cat-eye. She’d layer it, darkening the sweep, then coat her lashes with mascara until they fanned out like spider legs. A dusting of rose blush, a swipe of coral lipstick, and she was done. “Perfect,” she’d declare, leaning in to kiss her bouffant’s reflection in the mirror, the rigid bubble brushing her lips like a lover’s touch.
Gladys adored this—beautifying herself was her art, her rebellion against the drabness of their tight budget. She’d sit back, running her fingers over her shaved arms, feeling the squeaky-smooth skin, then trace her naked brows and bare thighs, marveling at her own creation. The bouffant crowned her, the makeup sharpened her, the shaved expanse made her feel pristine, untouchable yet wholly Ray’s. She’d twirl in the bathroom’s dim light, the bubble holding firm, and imagine his eyes on her when he got home—hungry, awed, undone.
The only thorn in her joy was sleeping in those curlers. It wasn’t the rolling them in or wearing them through the evening—she loved the weight, the promise they held. It was bedtime, when she’d lie on her back, her preferred pose, and feel them poke her scalp like little daggers. The soreness bloomed overnight, a dull throb that greeted her each morning. She’d tried pillows, scarves, even stacking blankets under her neck, but nothing spared her. Occasionally, when Ray took her from behind—sodomizing her with that slow, steady rhythm—she’d sleep on her tummy after, curlers digging less, but she’d always roll onto her back by dawn, the ache returning. If only there was something—a trick, a tool—to ease the sleep pain of rollers, she’d muse, staring at her perfect bouffant in the mirror. For now, she’d bear it, a small price for the beauty that ruled their days—and nights.
Three weeks had slipped by since Gladys last sank into the beauty parlor’s vinyl chair, and the ends of her chestnut hair were crying for a trim. The bouffant she teased each morning still held its bubble shape, thanks to her nightly curlers and Elnett spray, but the tips had frayed, splitting just enough to nag at her. She didn’t need Marge for styling—she’d mastered that herself—but a proper snip was beyond her bathroom mirror. So, on a crisp Saturday, she walked into the salon, the bell jingling as the door swung shut, and settled into Marge’s station, the air buzzing with dryers and the tang of hairspray.
Marge, a wiry woman with a smoker’s rasp and a knack for listening, was more than a beautician to Gladys—she was a confessor. As Marge draped the cape over her shoulders, pinning it tight at the neck, Gladys let it all spill out. “Ray can’t get enough of me, Marge,” she started, her voice low but eager. “Loves me shaved smooth—legs, arms, brows, everything below. Says it’s like I’m polished just for him. Comes home, takes one look at my bouffant, and he’s deciding—missionary, a quick BJ, or up the back. Sometimes he’s so worked up, he’ll have a second go at night, me still in my curlers, all bare and squeaky clean. Drives him wild, that contrast—his rough hands on my shaved skin, that hair he won’t touch.” She grinned, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “He’s got his domestic rights, you know, and I love giving ’em to him.”
Marge nodded, her scissors poised, snipping the split ends with quick, precise snicks. “Sounds like you’ve got him hooked, hon. That bouffant’s a weapon.” Gladys laughed, then her face softened, a crease forming between her browless arches. “Only thing, Marge, is sleeping in those damn curlers. I roll ’em in fine, wear ’em all evening no problem, but come bedtime, it’s misery. I like sleeping on my back—always have—but those rollers poke my scalp like nails. Leaves me sore every morning. Tried pillows, scarves, everything. Only time it’s better is when Ray takes me from behind—sleep on my tummy after that, it’s not so bad. But I roll onto my back by dawn, and it’s right back to aching. If I could fix that, I’d be golden.”
Marge paused, scissors hovering, her eyes narrowing as she studied Gladys in the mirror. “I’ve got an idea,” she said, tapping the comb against her chin. “You only hate sleeping on your back ’cause of the rollers, right? What if I shaved the back of your head? Not just the neck hair, not just the nape—I mean the whole backside, from the crown down to the base. Smooth as a baby’s cheek. You’d sleep flat, no poking, no pain.”
Gladys blinked, her jaw dropping as the words sank in. “Shaved? The back of my head?” She tilted her head, imagining it—her bouffant still high in front, but nothing to jab her at night. “So I could sleep in comfort, no rollers digging in? Marge, count me in!” Her voice was firm, a spark of excitement lighting her eyes. She trusted Marge—three years of trims and gossip had cemented that—and if it meant no more sore mornings, she’d take the plunge.
Marge grinned, reaching for the clippers on her station. “Let’s do it, then.” She flicked them on, the low bzzz humming through the salon as she tilted Gladys’s head forward. Starting at the nape, she pressed the blades to the skin, shearing off the chestnut strands in a slow, steady climb. Clumps of hair tumbled down the cape, piling on the floor like fallen leaves, as the clippers buzzed up to the crown. The cool metal kissed Gladys’s scalp, leaving a prickly stubble in its wake. Marge worked methodically, carving a clean line across the back, stopping just where the top would fold into the bouffant. Half her head was bare now, a stark, pale expanse from crown to neck.
“Clippers won’t get it smooth enough,” Marge muttered, swapping them for a straight razor. She lathered the shaved patch with warm foam, the scent of lavender rising, then dragged the blade down in long, careful strokes. The scrape-scrape filled the air as the stubble vanished, the razor gliding over every inch until the back of Gladys’s head was a glossy, hairless plane. Marge wiped it clean with a damp towel, running her fingers over the satin-smooth skin. “There. Not a whisker left.”
Now came the bouffant. Marge gathered the remaining hair—the long front and sides—and teased it with a vengeance. The comb ripped through, backcombing the strands into a towering, cotton-candy mass, each stroke puffing it higher. She sprayed Elnett in bursts, the floral mist settling as the shape took hold. Then, with a smoothing comb, she sculpted the top into a sleek bubble, folding the teased core under so it draped just past the shaved line. From the front, it was flawless—a rigid, glossy bouffant, full and round, the chestnut sheen catching the light. Marge spun Gladys to face the mirror, and unless you craned your neck, you’d never guess half her head was bald. The shaved back was a secret, tucked beneath the bubble’s perfect arc.
Gladys beamed, her browless face glowing. “Marge, you’re a genius. Looks just as good—no, better—and I’ll sleep like a dream tonight.” She ran her hand over the smooth patch, marveling at its cool, bare feel, then patted the bouffant’s rigid shell. “Ray won’t even know ’til he feels it, and he’ll love it—another shaved spot to drive him crazy.” She laughed, picturing his hands roaming her newly bare scalp, his breath hitching as he took her again.
Marge winked, sweeping the hair clippings into a pile. “You tell him Marge fixed you up. Now go home and enjoy that painless sleep, hon.” Gladys nodded, already dreaming of her back flat on the mattress, no curlers to stab her, her bouffant still reigning supreme by day—and Ray’s hands all over her by night.
Gladys stepped through the door that Saturday afternoon, her salon-fresh bouffant bouncing with every step, the Elnett sheen catching the kitchen light. Ray was sprawled on the couch, a beer in hand, his factory shirt unbuttoned, when he looked up and whistled low. “Damn, Glad, you’re a knockout,” he said, eyes tracing the rigid bubble of her hair, the sleek curve of her shaved arms peeking from her blouse. He lumbered over, pulling her close, his rough fingers grazing her smooth thigh as he kissed her coral-painted lips. “Marge outdid herself.” He didn’t notice—not then—that his wife was almost half bald, the shaved expanse from crown to nape hidden beneath the bouffant’s clever drape. To him, she was the same Gladys, polished and perfect, ready for his evening pick—missionary, BJ, or up the back.
For three days, the salon’s magic held. She brushed it high each morning, spritzed it with Elnett, and kept the bubble firm, the shaved back a secret tucked under the teased mass. Ray took her twice that weekend, once against the counter, her bouffant trembling, and once in bed, her smooth legs wrapped around him, and still, he didn’t clock the change. But by Tuesday, the salon’s umph faded—the ends softened, the height sagged, and Gladys knew it was time to reclaim her ritual. At 8 p.m., after the dishes were stacked, she leaned over the kitchen sink, Prell shampoo’s piney scent rising as she washed the bouffant away, the remaining hair—front and sides—falling wet against her cheeks.
In the bath, steam curling around her, she perched her mint-green caddy across the tub and began. She slathered Dippity-do gel onto the damp strands, winding them tight around magnetic curlers, pinning each with a click. The back stayed bare—no hair to roll, just smooth, shaved skin from crown to neck, cool under her fingertips. She misted Elnett over the curlers, the floral haze settling, then stretched the black mesh hairnet over her head, pinning it snug. Ray wandered in as she finished, towel around her shoulders, her half-curlered, half-bald head on full display. The net hugged the rollers in front, but the shaved patch gleamed starkly beneath, a pale, glossy curve catching the bathroom light.
He froze, beer halfway to his lips. “What the hell happened to your hair?” His voice was sharp, eyes wide as he stepped closer, peering at the bald stretch from her crown down. It stood out like a beacon—no curls, no fuzz, just skin, smooth and bare against the net’s edge.
Gladys turned, water dripping from her hands, and grinned. “Marge’s idea,” she said, wiping her palms on the towel. “Been three weeks since my last real salon visit, needed a trim. Told her everything—how you love me shaved smooth, how you take me every which way, how those curlers kill me when I sleep on my back. She figured if she shaved the whole back of my head—crown to nape, not just the neck—I could sleep flat, no pain. Clippers buzzed it off, then she razored it silky. Said it’d fix my nights, and the bouffant hides it perfect. You didn’t even notice ’til now.”
Ray set the beer down, stepping in close, his calloused hand hovering over the shaved patch. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, brushing his fingers across it. The skin was cool, satiny, not a trace of stubble—smoother than her legs, smoother than anything he’d felt on her. “It’s odd, different as hell, but… I like it.” He tilted her head, studying the contrast—the curlers sprouting in front, the bald sweep behind. “Hope you can sleep better now you’re shaved back there. ’Course, that’s after I get my hands on it.”
He grinned, a glint in his eye, and pulled her to the bedroom, her towel slipping to the floor. “C’mere, half-bald wife,” he growled, pushing her onto the bed face-down, her curlered front pressing into the quilt. The net crinkled as he straddled her, his hands roaming the shaved patch first—fingers tracing the curve from crown to nape, marveling at its glassy feel. Then his lips followed, hot and wet, kissing the bare skin with a slow, deliberate press. His tongue flicked out, licking a line up the center, tasting the faint salt of her scalp, the Prell’s lingering pine. “Smooth as hell,” he rasped, breath ragged, his stubble scraping the edges where hair met skin.
He shifted, hands gripping her hips, and flipped her onto her back, the curlers clacking under the net as her shaved patch hit the pillow—flat, painless, a revelation. He ducked down, kissing the bald stretch again, his lips smacking soft and loud, tongue swirling over it like it was new territory to claim. “This is mine now too,” he said, voice thick, as he tugged her nightie up, exposing her shaved legs and bare core. He took her then, missionary-style, his weight pinning her, the curlers jostling with each thrust. His hands slid from her smooth thighs to the bald patch, one palm cupping it as he moved, the other tangled in the netted rollers. The bed groaned, her shaved skin slid against his rough hair, and he kissed her browless forehead, licking the naked arches as he sped up. When he finished, shuddering above her, he collapsed, panting, “You’re a wild one, Glad—half bald, half curlered, all mine.”
She lay there, catching her breath, the shaved back cool against the pillow—no ache, no jab, just comfort. Ray rolled off, still grinning, and she smiled back, knowing her nights would be easier now—and her days, with him hooked on this new twist, just as hot.
Sleep was a revelation for Gladys now. That first night after Marge shaved the back of her head, she slid into bed, her curlered front netted tight, and rested her bare scalp on the pillow. No poking, no throbbing ache—just cool, smooth skin flat against the cotton, cradling her like a dream. She slept on her back, undisturbed, the way she’d always loved, and woke with a smile, no soreness to greet her. Ray had kissed and licked that bald patch before taking her, and she’d drifted off basking in the dual victory—his hunger and her comfort. “Worth every clip,” she’d murmured, patting the glassy expanse as she teased her bouffant that morning.
But paradise had its cracks. By the next day, she felt it—a faint prickle under her fingers as she ran them over the shaved back. Tiny hairs, stubborn as weeds, were popping up, a scratchy shadow where smoothness had reigned. By day two, the stubble thickened, dark and coarse, bristling against her palm like sandpaper. She’d frown in the bathroom mirror, tilting her head to catch the light—half curlered, half scruffy, the contrast jarring. At her 8 p.m. bath, she’d lean over the tub’s edge, razor in hand, and shave it anew. The pearl-handled blade scraped the regrowth away, its shhht-shhht echoing as she dragged it from crown to nape, rinsing the foam-flecked hairs into the water. The skin gleamed again, satin-smooth, and she’d sigh, relieved, setting her curlers and netting them as Ray peeked in, grinning at her half-bald ritual.
Yet the hairs fought back, furious and relentless. Every night, they’d sprout anew—thicker, faster, a prickly rebellion against her blade. She’d shave them down, the razor gliding over the same patch, foam bubbling as she worked, but by morning, the stubble would itch, a gritty annoyance that dulled her sleep’s joy. Three weeks of this battle wore her thin—the back of her head a constant chore, like weeding a garden that wouldn’t stay clear. She loved the bouffant, loved Ray’s hands on her shaved skin, but the regrowth was a scruffy, dirty plague she couldn’t outpace.
So, on a gray Tuesday, she marched back to Marge’s salon, the bell chiming as she settled into the chair. The cape snapped around her neck, and Gladys spilled it all. “Sleep’s been heaven, Marge,” she said, tilting her head to show the stubbly back, now a quarter-inch of coarse black fuzz. “No more curlers jabbing me—I can lie flat, rest my head, and wake up fresh. Ray loves it too, kissing it, licking it, taking me every which way. But these damn hairs—they’re back in a day, two at most. Shaving every night keeps ’em down, but they sprout like weeds, scruffy and ugly. Feels dirty, like I can’t stay clean. I’m tired of fighting ’em.”
Marge leaned in, running her fingers over the prickly patch, nodding thoughtfully. “I’ve got an idea, hon,” she said, her voice gravelly with confidence. “We can wax it. Shaving cuts ’em off, but waxing rips ’em out—roots and all. It’ll stay cleaner, smoother, longer. First time hurts the worst, second’s close, but by the third, you’ll barely notice. After that, maybe once a month, and you’ll see real benefits—no stubble, no daily grind. You game?”
Gladys’s eyes lit up. “Wax it? Keep it bald for weeks? Marge, do it—I’m sick of this scruff.” She settled back, ready for relief, trusting Marge’s steady hands.
Marge grabbed a pot of hot wax from the warmer, the honey-thick goo steaming as she stirred it with a wooden stick. She tilted Gladys’s head forward, brushing the stubbly back with a swipe of alcohol—sharp and cold—to clean it. Then she scooped the wax, warm and tacky, and spread it over the patch in a thick, amber layer, from crown to nape. It clung to the hairs, hardening fast, the heat sinking into Gladys’s scalp as Marge pressed a muslin strip over it, smoothing it flat. “Brace yourself,” Marge warned, gripping the strip’s edge. With a quick, ruthless yank, she ripped it off—zzzip—and Gladys yelped, a white-hot sting flaring across her scalp. Tears pricked her eyes as Marge peeled away another strip, then another, each pull tearing out the roots with a sharp, searing tug. Clumps of dark hair stuck to the wax, the skin left red and raw but bare.
Marge soothed it with aloe, cool and slick, then ran a razor over the patch for good measure, scraping off any stragglers until it shone like polished marble. “First one’s a beast,” she said, wiping her hands. “Second’ll sting too, but by the third—three weeks from now—it’ll be nothing. Then once a month, and you’re set. Smooth as glass, no weeds.”
Gladys touched it, wincing at the tenderness but marveling at the silkiness—no stubble, no fuzz, just pure, clean skin. Marge teased the front into a bouffant, backcombing it high and spraying it with Elnett, the bubble draping over the waxed back so seamlessly you’d never know half her head was bald. “Perfect,” Gladys breathed, grinning at her reflection. “Sleep’ll be sweet again, and Ray’ll lose his mind over this.”
Three weeks later, she’d be back for the second waxing, the pain still sharp but less brutal, the hairs thinner as they surrendered. By the third, it was a breeze—a quick rip, a faint sting, and months of smooth, weed-free bliss stretched ahead. For now, she headed home, her scalp tender but pristine, ready for Ray to kiss, lick, and claim anew—her bouffant high, her back bald, her sleep unbroken.
The waxing sessions with Marge settled into a rhythm, each one peeling away more than just hair—they stripped Gladys’s worries down to nothing. That second visit, three weeks after the first, still stung—a hot, ripping jolt as the muslin strips tore free, but the pain was duller, the hairs sparser, their roots already weakened. Marge had slathered the warm wax over the back of Gladys’s head, from crown to nape, the amber goo cooling as it gripped the stubble. The zzzip of each pull echoed in the salon, less brutal than before, and when Marge wiped the aloe over the raw, red patch, Gladys felt the difference—smoother, cleaner, the regrowth retreating like a tide pulling back.
By the third waxing, three weeks later, it was almost nothing. The hairs had thinned to a faint scatter, fine and fragile, surrendering to the relentless tug of the wax. Marge spread the hot layer, pressed the strip, and ripped it off with a quick flick—Gladys barely flinched, the sting a fleeting pinch. The roots, battered again and again, seemed to give up, damaged beyond fighting. Marge razored the patch after, a light scrape to catch strays, and the back of her head gleamed—pale, glassy, a permanent bald curve under the bouffant’s teasing veil. “Told ya, hon,” Marge said, brushing clippings from her hands. “By now, it’s yours for keeps. Once a month’ll do it—maybe less.”
Gladys ran her fingers over the bare expanse, marveling at its silkiness—no prickly weeds, no nightly shave, just a cool, unyielding smoothness that stretched from crown to neck. The front and sides she still rolled each night, her 8 p.m. bath a dance of Prell shampoo, Dippity-do gel, and magnetic curlers, netted tight with Elnett’s floral mist. Come morning, she’d brush and backcomb them into that rigid, cotton-candy bouffant, the bubble draping so perfectly over the waxed back that no one—save Ray—knew half her head was bald. It was a submission, she realized, to her pillow, her rollers, her bouffant, and Ray—a surrender that set her free.
Sleep became her sanctuary. She’d slide into bed, her curlered front clacking faintly under the net, and rest her waxed scalp flat on the pillow. No jab, no ache—just the gentle cradle of cotton against her bare skin, letting her sink into dreams on her back, the way she’d always craved. She’d wake refreshed, no soreness to mar her mornings, her fingers brushing the bald patch with a quiet thrill as she started her day. Ray noticed too—his hands roamed it often, kissing the smooth curve, licking it with a hungry grin before taking her, missionary or otherwise, the bed creaking as her shaved body met his rough edges.
Life bloomed around this ease. She’d tease her bouffant high, paint her thin, arched brows and cat-eye liner, and glide through chores with a hum—Patsy Cline on the radio, the scent of toast lingering from Ray’s breakfast. When he’d barrel in at 5:30, grease-streaked and tie loose, he’d scoop her up, his “Damn, Glad, you’re somethin’” a daily hymn to her bubble and her bareness. He’d pick his pleasure—her smooth legs wrapping him, her shaved core yielding, her bald back a new fetish he’d kiss and claim—and sometimes, at night, he’d go again, her curlers bouncing as he marveled at her half-bald glory.
Gladys savored every moment now. The waxing had tamed the back of her head into near-permanent baldness, the sparse hairs that dared return too weak to matter, plucked free with a monthly strip. She’d sit in Marge’s chair, the warm wax a familiar friend, and chat about Ray’s latest obsession with her shaved scalp, the pain a memory, the smoothness a triumph. Back home, she’d twirl before the mirror, her bouffant a chestnut crown, her waxed back a secret badge—submission turned strength. Sleep was hers, Ray was hers, and that rigid, perfect bubble was hers, every day a joy she’d fought for and won.
Gladys adored Ray’s touch—his rough hands on her shaved skin, his lips on her waxed scalp, the way he’d take her with a hunger that never dulled. But sometimes, in the quiet hum of her own world, she craved more, a secret spark just for her. It started one Tuesday, three months into her near-permanent half-bald bliss, when she sat in Marge’s salon chair for her routine waxing. The bell jingled as she entered, the air thick with hairspray and the low buzz of dryers, and Marge snapped the cape around her neck, the cool vinyl settling over her shoulders like a shield. Gladys’s bouffant was still teased high from the morning, but the back—her smooth, waxed patch—had sprouted a faint whisper of hairs, fine and sparse, ready for Marge’s hands.
Marge turned to the warmer, stirring the pot of wax with a wooden stick, the honey-thick goo swirling slow and warm, releasing a faint lavender hum into the air. “Gonna get you nice and bald again, hon,” she rasped, her back to Gladys as she tested the heat with a dab on her wrist. The anticipation hit Gladys like a wave—the promise of that hot wax, the sharp rip, the cool smoothness to follow. Her breath hitched, her thighs pressed together under the cape, and a restless heat bloomed low in her belly. She slid her right hand beneath the vinyl, fingers brushing the hem of her skirt, then slipping under to the bare, shaved skin of her inner thigh. The salon’s chatter faded, her world narrowing to the slick feel of her own touch, the faint pine of Prell lingering on her skin from last night’s bath.
Her fingers found her core, already damp, and she circled slow, teasing herself as Marge stirred the wax—clink, clink—the stick tapping the pot’s edge. The heat of her own hand, the vinyl trapping it, sent a shiver up her spine, her shaved legs trembling faintly beneath the cape. She bit her lip, stifling a sigh, her browless forehead creasing as she pressed harder, the anticipation of the waxing coiling tight with her rising need. The mirror showed her bouffant, rigid and perfect, but under the cape, she was unraveling, her fingers slick and insistent, the wet schlick of her touch muffled by the vinyl’s rustle.
Marge turned back, wax ready, and tilted Gladys’s head forward, exposing the faintly fuzzy patch from crown to nape. “Here we go,” she said, spreading the warm, tacky layer over the skin, the heat seeping in as it hardened. Gladys’s hand moved faster now, her fingers plunging deeper, the wax’s warmth echoing the fire she stoked below. Marge pressed a muslin strip over the wax, smoothing it flat, and ripped it off—zzzip—a quick, sharp sting flaring across Gladys’s scalp. She gasped, the pain spiking her pleasure, her hand trembling as she rubbed harder, her shaved core pulsing under her touch. Another strip went down, another rip—zzzip—and her moan slipped free, low and throaty, her fingers curling inside as the wax tore the sparse hairs free, leaving her scalp raw and tingling.
Marge’s eyes flicked to the mirror, catching the rhythmic twitch of Gladys’s arm beneath the cape, the faint bulge of her hand moving in tight, urgent strokes. She smirked, unfazed, and leaned down, her smoker’s breath warm against Gladys’s ear. “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered sweetly, her voice a gravelly lullaby. “You go right ahead.” From her apron pocket, she slipped a small, buzzing dildo—sleek, black, already humming low—and slid it under the cape, pressing it into Gladys’s wet, waiting hand. “Enjoy. We’ve got lots of waxing ahead to get you nice and bald back here.”
Gladys’s eyes fluttered, a grateful moan spilling out—“Thank you, Marge”—as her fingers wrapped around the dildo’s smooth, vibrating length. She guided it under her skirt, the buzz tingling against her shaved thighs, and pressed it to her core, the low hum sinking into her slick heat. Her head tilted back as Marge spread more wax, the hot goo coating the next patch, and when the strip ripped free—zzzip—the sting jolted through her, syncing with the dildo’s pulse. She worked it slow at first, the vibration rippling through her, her shaved skin hypersensitive to every shudder. Marge waxed on, strip after strip, each zzzip stripping the last wisps of hair, the pain a delicious lash that drove Gladys higher. Her moans grew louder, unrestrained, the cape rustling as her hips bucked faintly, the dildo’s buzz a steady hymn beneath the salon’s din.
The final strip tore free, and Marge razored the patch smooth, the scrape-scrape a cool counterpoint to the heat flooding Gladys’s body. Her scalp gleamed—bald, pristine, a perfect half-moon under the bouffant’s drape—and she pushed the dildo deeper, the vibration peaking as she clenched around it, her shaved legs quivering. With a sharp cry, she came, the pleasure crashing through her, her browless face flushing pink as she sagged against the chair, breathless. Marge wiped the aloe over her scalp, the cool gel soothing the rawness, and patted her shoulder. “All done, hon. Smooth as ever—and looks like you enjoyed it.”
Gladys smiled, dazed, pulling the dildo free and handing it back under the cape, her hand slick and trembling. “You’re a saint, Marge,” she panted, her bouffant still perfect, her waxed back a glassy triumph. Marge teased the front higher, spraying it with Elnett, and sent her off—half bald, fully sated, ready for Ray’s touch and her pillow’s embrace, a secret thrill now woven into her salon days.
