A Change, My Story Of Change

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Author’s Note:

I have been taking time to get to know people in the community through Reddit and other methods. I discovered that alot of people really like the story of how I first shaved my head. After some consideration I think I should tell my story as best as I can, having been feeling the itch to shave it again recently! This is my story of change:


Traveling back to 2021 it was the start of the spring semester, my roommate and I were beginning to really hit the grindstone on our joint thesis and the stress was mounting. I have always had that itch in the back of my mind:

I want to shave my head.

But it always passes after an orgasm, and when I would work up the courage to go to my stylist I would never be able to manifest my desire and outright say it. Leaving with only my chagrin and a short trim on the sides while keeping the top long. I dreamed of feeling clippers run through the top of my hair, feeling the tickle of hair cascading down my face in clumps as he or she makes multiple passes, ensuring every last hair was mowed down to a uniform length. I dreamed of feeling the cape snap around my neck, just snug enough knowing that it wont release until I am nearly hairless and feeling the cool breeze of the shop pass over my scalp.

This thesis was breaking me, the stress mounting as five pages turned to 50 and 70, deadlines approaching and what was once only a source of momentary solace began to eat up more and more mental real-estate. I needed to ease the pressure,

I needed to shave my head.

It was one cool February morning, I sat there in bed at 7am and the thought hit me early this time, I was usually left with some reprieve in the mornings. The urge hit me like a truck, a prophecy was forming and I had a pit in my stomach, it was time to finally pull the trigger. I tried not to think too hard, I didn’t want to give myself a chance to back out. Pulling out my phone I opened my stylist’s webpage and scheduled an appointment, her first appointment on a weekday so I knew we would have her shop all to ourselves for at least two hours. Pausing on the cut selection I only put that we were doing a short cut, didn’t want to give away my intentions of a buzz cut or shave just yet, needed to concede slightly to my growing anxieties. My pants began to dampen just thinking about that however.

It was at 8am.

My appointment was at 8am…

I didn’t wanna give myself enough time to masturbate and clarity change my course. I knew I needed this…

My head was blank on the way there, my breathing shallow and the pit forming in my stomach was in juxtaposition with the warmth I was feeling in my pelvis.


I arrived 15 minutes early and proceeded inside wearing a baggy hoodie and sweatpants.

She was gorgeous, her long brown hair framed a slim face on a six foot figure, wearing a white sweatshirt turtleneck she gave me such a warm smile, we had been seeing each other as my stylist for almost a year. Out of all her people I was one of the few who loved to experiment, to try out new things and cared about my hair. Her shop was small, a single hot-rod red leather barber chair in a wood panel room, there wasn’t even a receptionist counter, just a bench next to the door and the smell of powder in the air. This place was so comforting, when it was just us I felt safe, I knew I wasn’t going to be judged here, I could think openly about my style and this time I would express my desires openly. She didn’t know I was secretly always trying to work up the courage to take it all off but now she would. I took off my sweatshirt and sat down in her chair like I had many times before. Settling in, my heart began to race, I knew I wanted to back out, but I was nearly dripping wet by this point. I had to be steadfast in my decision and follow through.

Tossing the cape over me she secured it with a white strip of paper pulled taught and a click. I loved the airy feeling of a salon cape over me, like a protective blanket, its navy blue color matched my eyes.  This time the cape was locking me into the chair, it signaled that hair was soon going to be tumbling down that cape and it was up to me to decide how much and with what tool. I would not be leaving that soft leather chair with a full head of hair, I was certain.

No turning back I thought to myself.

Same as always she looked at me through the mirror, our eyes meeting and I could answer her question before she even asked it. The same formality as always.
“What are we doing today?”


I had been rehearsing this in the car the entire time. It was perfect. It left everything up to chance and preference outside of my control. Our relationship was purely transactional but after seeing each other for so long I knew I could trust her with a bucket list item like this, make it a game, indulge me. After swallowing my fear, I spoke.
“I want to change it up, I think.”
Leaving room for apprehension.

“I have always wanted to go short, something besides a normal scissor clipping to the top and give me something more uniform.”

Directly imply a buzz-cut without saying it or saying I want to have clippers used on top of my head.

“Do you think we can make a coin flip out of it?”

A game of chance, leave my fate up to the gods.

Her emerald green eyes raised in quiet surprise and she tilted her head, one hand on my shoulder and the other playing with my hair, it’s length just over six inches. Her response came after what felt like hours.

“What should be heads and what should be tails?”

She was onboard.

“How about heads, we do a normal trim like always, cleaning up the sides, but tails… Just grab any guard you think would look good and go for it, don’t even tell me what it lands on.”
I was giving her a chance to disregard the coin flip, making it a formality. To go right for the clippers and without giving me a moment’s chance of clarity to back out she could shear me.

She smiled and with both hands on the back of the chair she spun me towards her. Away from the mirror, the cape lifting up under the breeze like a dress before settling down again. Before I could fully process that this was no dream she was moving to her tools at the counter and I could hear her rummaging through her purse. The clinking of coins filled the small shop, my heart was in my throat and the pit in my stomach grew to a chasm all the while my fingers explored my pelvic area massaging me, telling me it was going to be okay.


There it was, the sound of a coin hitting the countertop, deciding my fate. No words, just like I expected. I closed my eyes to focus on the sound, to see what details I could get about my fast approaching fate.



What guard is she going to use?

Is she going to start with my nape or go right for the forehead?

Do I still want this?

Can I back out?

I can’t believe this?

What are my classmates going to think?!

What is my research partner going to think?!?

I was so thoroughly trapped within my head I didn’t even hear her rummage through the guards, looking for what to attach to her clippers, what to shear me with. Could have taken her seconds to decide before she proceeded, could have taken her hours, I couldn’t tell, I was struggling to answer even the first question.



My attention snapped away from these burning questions, just about every one of them was about to be answered. The click of her flats on the wood floor echoed in symphony with the clippers, louder as they approached me.

But from what angle of attack, where would she start?

I felt it. The cool steel on my forehead, the vibration of the powerful motor reverberating throughout my skull.

My hair ever so slightly shaking in fear.

My body ever so slightly shaking in anticipation.

She drew them back, slowly, giving them time to grab each hair, to chop it off at some per-determined height that I was not yet privy to knowing.


I could feel the tickle of hair cascading down my cheeks, brushing my eyes on the way down, its soft weight on the cape, sliding down before eventually settling on the floor. I stole a peak at the rainfall of nearly a year of growth to try and get an idea of the transformation transpiring just out of sight. It had to be less than a #5. There was a cool breeze forming from the fan in her shop, circulating air, following the clippers and greeting the fresh growth at my roots. I let out a deep breath, there was no going back, my pelvis dripped and I could feel the stickiness on the tips of my fingers, I continued lightly squeezing and caressing between my thighs massaging myself and getting lost in the moment.

With each pass of the clippers they continued to warm up, the vibration turning my brain into mush swallowed in a sea of endorphins and ecstasy. With each pass of the clippers they continued to strip my hair down to a soft brown pelt, melting away at pent up desires and unfulfilled fantasies. A moment in life I wouldn’t ever forget. She moved my head as she continued to mow down the length, letting go of control I submitted like a sheep before the farmer. I lost track of time, making multiple passes back over areas, the top of my head no longer gave a muffled and futile resistance before the clippers.

I was sheared.


The clippers were turned off and I heard the barberette lay them to rest on the countertop with a quiet thud. Her hands were warm against my scalp.

I can feel her hands against my scalp…

With one hand still on my head she spun me around with the other. To assess my transformation, my desire, fulfilled.

It didn’t look like me, such a round head, she must have used a #3 or #4 because I could just barely make out my scalp through the overhead lights, cutting through and illuminating my features. I was stunned, I couldn’t believe it, she buzzed me down, finally. Her voice shattered the silence.

“I think it looks great on you!”

She ran her hands over my head playfully, my hair was so soft, little remnants of hair flew off in the air like dust. Her hands were soft and gentle.

I began to love it, how clean it was, how easy it would now be to style, how uniform it was, and to maintain it I would need clippers run over my head all over again…

But I wasn’t done just yet.

“Can we go shorter?”

“How short are we thinking?”

Her response seemed to carry anticipation, was she enjoying this?

I was getting carried away, both in my head and in my pants, I was gone and ready to go all the way.

“Shave it all off.”

Oh my.

This time she didn’t spin me around, I was allowed to watch it appeared, she approached the counter and I saw her remove the previous guard responsible for my short buzz. She wasn’t responding but I could read enthusiasm in the silence, in the gait of a barberette approaching her tools.

She was on board.

Grabbing a thin metal blade and with a swift motion she swapped the guards. There was that all so satisfying click I must have missed the first time while I got lost in my thoughts. This time it broke the silence, snapped whatever questions were trying to form in my mind. I was present now.

I was ready.

She walked behind me holding the clippers, they were still quiet as she positioned herself behind me. Our eyes met once again like when we first started this session. Her smile said everything I wanted and the following sound confirmed this.



This time she started in the back. I felt the clippers crawl up my nape, the blades biting at skin, taking everything. Shaving it down to where only a razor would be able to reach further. There was no soft brown pelt, there was sandpaper and a nude scalp. I wasn’t able to tell immediately just how it looked but as she moved around to the sides the clippers crawled further and further up my head with each pass.

My head was perfectly round, no blemishes, no imperfections, it was meant to be shaved like this. The growing baldness highlighted my other sculpted facial features. A craftswoman was polishing a diamond in the rough. Years of hair covering such beauty. Each pass revealed more of my milky white scalp, the blond in my roots getting lost in the light, it looked as it I was already shaved with a razor and not just clippers. The high pitched buzz filled the shop as she continued.


From the sides she positioned in-front of me, changing her grip on the clippers to a more confident overhand grip. I was caught staring right at her collarbone, I was too shy to try and make eye contact as she studied my mane of hair. She began passing them from my forehead back, just like before, the motor now much closer to my skull. The vibration was all the more intense as I picked up the pace massaging myself beneath the cover of the cape, fingers transfixed between my thighs. Squeezing, stroking, exploring, now lubricated, the pleasure was all the more real. Maybe she knew what I was up to but she didn’t care, she was fixated on the masterpiece becoming before her. I watched strips joined together to form sections of revealed scalp, the clippers sending fine shreds of fuzz into the air like when she rubbed my head earlier. I was beginning to climax in the soft leather seat as she finished up, leaning back and looking up at her as she continued to make passes over the top. She took her time finalizing the cut.


Juices poured out, a damn broken and a dream fulfilled. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath.

She was done and so was I…

My perfectly round head, the skin blended near perfectly with the read of my head, I had always meant to be bald. I didn’t even need a razor to look shaved, blond roots and lighting did the rest. After brushing me off and removing the cape I pulled down my sweatshirt to cover up what might have been visible through my pants, I didn’t look down to acknowledge it. I remember her commenting about how this was her first time doing something like this to a client and how much fun it was. Lost in post-climax recovery I don’t remember much of the rest. Only that I was shocked and full of euphoria.

When I got home I do remember finishing the haircut, I knew I needed to take it one last step. I took my shaving cream and lathered up my head, standing there naked in the bathroom I assessed the milky white cream on my head nearly blending in with my skin tone. I took the razor and ever so carefully began to scrape away at what little stubble remained.

Scritch, scritch, scritch…

The tug of the razor against my scalp was soothing, the audible scratching sound was nearly orgasmic, like ASMR. I couldn’t do long passes like with the pair of clippers, I was forced to do little bits at a time. Work it in sections revealing more and more while washing off any hairs still clinging to the razor. I took my time with my head, occasionally sealing a feel at the top and admiring the silky smooth sensation of my now perfectly nude skull. It shined off my overhead bathroom lights, with one hand on the razor I explored myself more openly in the privacy of the bathroom, a stroke with one hand on the razor, another with my hand on my privates. I can’t say how long I took. There were multiple orgasms, spilling forth milky white juices all similar to what was lathering my head at that moment, waves of pleasure washing over me and down my legs. By the end my head was spotless, gone over what must have been three times.




I loved having my head shaved, I nearly kept it that way but classes grew hectic and the thesis took my attention away. The relief was there but it was temporary until my hair began to grow back. While I sit here recanting this story of fulfilled desires and transformation I feel the same pit in my stomach and warmness in my pelvis. I recently moved away from that barberette and her small shop, graduated college and moved to a big city for work.

I can feel the desire growing again, my hair is now past my ears, but this time I think I want someone else to share in the moment with me more implicitly.

To indulge my desires openly and shear me. I don’t want to steal a touch passively beneath a salon cape alone but rather have someone help me explore those regions unrevealed. To end the night bald and beautiful, orgasmic relief coursing through both of our bodies and piles of hair on the floor, clippers still warm, a razor still drying off.

One response to “A Change, My Story Of Change

  1. I have unapproved the comments on this story because I was concerned about the direction they were heading in. If any of the commenters feel uncomfortable about what was going on, feel free to email me. Just replace the at symbol, ginger.herten (at) gmail.com

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