Bouffant Shave
It was March 12, 1963, and Eleanor Grayson had just turned eighteen. The small town of Willow Creek buzzed with the usual hum of springtime—birds chirping, the faint rumble of a tractor in the distance—but for Eleanor, the day felt anticlimactic. She stood before her bedroom mirror, frowning at her reflection. Plain, she thought. Mousy brown hair that hung limply past her shoulders, a round face with unremarkable features, and eyebrows that seemed to fade into her pale skin. She wasn’t ugly, not really, but she wasn’t anything special either. And that, her mother had decided, simply wouldn’t do.
“Eighteen’s a woman’s age, Ellie,” her mother, Marjorie, had declared over breakfast, her voice sharp with purpose. “We’re not letting you start it looking like a wallflower. I’ve made an appointment at Dora’s Beauty Parlour. Today, we’re making you a lady.”
Eleanor didn’t argue. She never did. Marjorie Grayson was a force of nature—petite but commanding, with a platinum blonde beehive that seemed to defy gravity and a wardrobe of pastel dresses that screamed femininity. She’d been planning this day for weeks, phoning Dora with precise instructions: “Jet black, Dora, none of that wishy-washy brown… a big bouffant, I mean big… shave her nape clean, right up high… eyebrows off, thin and arched, drawn on proper…” Eleanor hadn’t known whether to be excited or terrified.
The beauty parlour was a pastel pink haven on Main Street, its windows adorned with curling script and a neon sign that flickered faintly. Inside, the air smelled of hairspray and floral perfume, and the hum of hairdryers mingled with the chatter of women in curlers. Dora, a stout woman with a warm smile and a teased red updo, greeted them with enthusiasm.
“Well, if it isn’t the birthday girl!” Dora said, clapping her hands. “Marjorie’s told me all about the vision, honey. You’re in for a treat.”
Eleanor managed a shy smile as she was ushered to a chair. Marjorie hovered nearby, arms crossed, overseeing the transformation like a general directing troops. First came the dye. Dora mixed a thick, inky black concoction and painted it onto Eleanor’s hair, strand by strand, until her scalp tingled and her reflection began to shift. The brown was gone, replaced by a striking jet black. Once the dye set, Dora sectioned the wet strands and rolled them tightly into large curlers, pinning each one close to Eleanor’s scalp. The weight of the curlers tugged at her head, promising the volume Marjorie craved.
“Now for the nape,” Dora said, brandishing clippers. Eleanor froze as the buzzing tool grazed the back of her neck. Marjorie had insisted—shaved clean, high up, a stark contrast to the mass above. The cool air hit her skin as the last wisps fell away, and Dora held up a mirror. The shaved patch gleamed beneath the curlers.
Next came the eyebrows. Dora razored off every trace of Eleanor’s natural brows, and Marjorie nodded as Dora penciled in thin, steeply arched lines that gave Eleanor’s face a surprised, doll-like expression. The transformation was jarring, but thrilling.
With the curlers in place, Dora positioned Eleanor under a massive hairdryer, but not before leaning in with a grin. “How about a little extra pampering? A hot soapy enema—cleans you out, perks you right up. All the Hollywood girls are doing it.”
Eleanor blinked, unsure, but Marjorie clapped her hands. “Perfect, Dora! She’s a woman now—might as well start fresh inside and out.”
Mortified but too timid to protest, Eleanor followed Dora to a small, curtained room. Dora produced a rubber bag filled with warm, soapy water, attached to a thin hose with a smooth, rounded nozzle. “Just relax, honey,” Dora said, instructing Eleanor to lie on a cushioned table and lift her skirt. With practiced efficiency, Dora gently inserted the nozzle, its warmth startling Eleanor as it settled into place. The bag hung above, and the liquid began to flow, a slow, steady stream that filled her with a heavy, unfamiliar fullness. Dora left the nozzle in, securing it with a small clip. “We’ll keep it there while you’re under the dryer,” she said. “Lets everything set nice and proper.”
Back under the dryer, Eleanor sat with her head full of curlers and the enema nozzle still in place, the heat roaring above as the soapy liquid swelled inside her. The curlers baked, tightening her hair into perfect coils, while the fullness pressed against her insides, making her stomach gurgle faintly. She shifted uncomfortably, the nozzle a constant presence, her cheeks flushed from the heat and the strange sensation. The dryer’s hum drowned out her embarrassment, and she gripped the armrests, feeling both trapped and oddly cared for.
When the dryer dinged, Dora returned, her smile unfaltering. “Time to let it go,” she said, guiding Eleanor back to the curtained room. She stayed close, chatting about hair trends as she removed the nozzle and Eleanor perched on a discreet commode. The expulsion came in a rush—warm, sudsy, and relieving—Dora’s steady presence easing the awkwardness. “You’re doing fine, honey,” she said, handing Eleanor a damp cloth when it was over. “Now, just to be safe, let’s get you diapered up. Sometimes there’s a little leak later, and we wouldn’t want to ruin your big day.” With quick hands, Dora fitted Eleanor with a soft, discreet diaper under her skirt, patting her knee reassuringly.
Back at the chair, Dora removed the curlers, teasing the jet-black strands into a towering bouffant bubble, pinning and spraying it into a glossy masterpiece. Eleanor gasped at the mirror. The shaved nape accentuated the height, the drawn-on brows framed her eyes with bold elegance. She felt lighter, cleaner, transformed inside and out.
Marjorie beamed, tears in her eyes. “Oh, Ellie, you’re stunning. A real lady now.”
Eleanor touched her hair, marveling at its stiffness, and smiled. “I like it,” she admitted, the diaper a secret comfort beneath her skirt. Marjorie squeezed her hand.
As they left, heads turned on Main Street. Eleanor Grayson, once plain, was now a vision—jet black and bold, a girl remade. And for the first time, she felt like she belonged in her mother’s world.
