Bouffant Shave
In the quaint town of Willow Creek in 1964, Beth Carter had become a fixture of style with her towering bouffant hairstyle. For four years, she’d religiously maintained it, visiting Dolly’s Beauty Salon twice a week—every Wednesday and Saturday morning—without fail. Each visit was a two-hour ritual: Dolly would backcomb Beth’s chestnut hair into a voluminous dome, smoothing the outer layer for a glossy finish, and seal it with a heavy mist of Aqua Net hairspray. The bouffant added four inches to Beth’s 5’4” frame, making her feel like a glamorous icon as she taught her third-grade class. She’d leave the salon with her head held high, the scent of hairspray trailing behind her, her bouffant a perfect symbol of mid-century femininity.
Beth’s daily care for her bouffant was a meticulous routine. In the mornings, she’d gently remove the silk scarf she slept in, teasing any flattened spots with a rattail comb and refreshing the shape with a quick spritz of Elnett Satin hairspray. She’d admire the height in her vanity mirror, ensuring every strand was in place before heading to work. At night, she’d brush out the day’s tangles, re-tease the roots, and secure the structure with metal hairpins before wrapping it in a silk scarf. Sometimes, she’d sleep propped up on pillows to avoid flattening it. Once a week, she’d wash her hair with a sulfate-free shampoo, preparing for her next salon visit. Her dresser was a shrine to her bouffant: combs, brushes, pins, and a rainbow of scarves to match her outfits.
But in the spring of 1964, Beth’s perspective shifted after watching a documentary at the Willow Creek Community Center. The film depicted French women collaborators during World War II, their heads shaved bald as punishment after the Germans were driven out. The stark imagery of those women—scalps bare, faces defiant—stayed with Beth. She began to question her bouffant, the hours of maintenance, the constant pressure to keep it perfect. What would it feel like to be free of it? To have a smooth, bald head, unburdened by the weight of her hair and the expectations it carried?
The idea grew until, one humid Saturday in May, Beth walked into Dolly’s Beauty Salon for her usual appointment. Her bouffant was flawless, but her mind was made up. She sat in the pink vinyl chair, the salon buzzing with its usual chatter, and said, “Dolly, I want it all off. Shave it.” The room went quiet. Dolly, cigarette in hand, blinked in disbelief. “You sure, hon?” she asked. Beth nodded firmly. “Completely bald. And I want it smooth.”
Dolly stubbed out her cigarette and reached for the clippers, the kind she used for men’s buzz cuts. The hum of the clippers filled the air as she began, shearing off Beth’s bouffant in long, chestnut strips. The other women in the salon watched, some gasping softly as the towering structure fell away, revealing Beth’s pale scalp. When the clippers finished, Beth’s head was covered in short stubble, but she wasn’t done. “I want a full razor shave,” she said. “Steamed towel, hot lather, the works. And do it three times—I want to be completely smooth.”
Dolly nodded, accustomed to Beth’s precision after years of styling her bouffant. She heated a towel with steam until it was piping hot, then wrapped it around Beth’s head, letting the warmth soften the stubble. After a few minutes, she removed the towel and lathered Beth’s scalp with a thick layer of hot shaving cream, the scent of lavender filling the air. Using a straight razor, Dolly began to shave, her strokes slow and careful, scraping away the stubble in smooth, even passes. She worked methodically, covering every inch of Beth’s scalp, then wiped it clean with a warm cloth.
Beth ran her hand over her head, feeling the faint roughness that remained. “Again,” she said. Dolly repeated the process: another steamed towel, more hot lather, another round of shaving. The razor glided over Beth’s scalp a second time, removing any lingering stubble. After wiping it down, Beth touched her head again, still not satisfied. “One more time, Dolly. I want it perfectly smooth.” Dolly obliged, applying a third steamed towel, a third layer of lather, and a third shave. By the end, Beth’s scalp gleamed under the salon lights, as smooth as glass, not a single hair remaining.
Beth looked in the mirror, her reflection a stark contrast to the woman who had walked in. Her head was completely bald, the skin pale and unblemished, the weight of her bouffant—and the years of maintaining it—gone. She ran her hands over her scalp, marveling at the sensation, the coolness, the freedom. The other women in the salon stared, some whispering, but Beth didn’t care. She felt liberated, unburdened by the twice-weekly salon visits, the daily teasing, the scarves, and the hairspray.
As she stepped out of Dolly’s into the May air, the breeze felt electric against her bare scalp. For the first time in four years, Beth was free—not just of her bouffant, but of the rituals that had defined her. Inspired by the French women in the documentary, she had found her own kind of liberation, one that came with the smooth, clean slate of her freshly shaved head. Willow Creek would talk, but Beth was ready for whatever came next, her bald head a bold new beginning in 1964.
A week had passed since Beth Carter walked out of Dolly’s Beauty Salon with a freshly shaved head, her once-iconic bouffant replaced by a smooth, pale scalp that felt both foreign and exhilarating. It was now May 25, 1964, and the small town of Willow Creek was still abuzz with whispers about her dramatic transformation. Beth, however, felt a newfound lightness. The absence of her twice-weekly salon visits, the daily teasing, the silk scarves, and the cans of hairspray had unshackled her from a routine that had defined her for four years. But she wasn’t ready to let her scalp grow out just yet. The sensation of a bare head—the coolness, the simplicity—had become addictive, and she wanted to maintain it.
Beth had scheduled her next appointment at Dolly’s for the following Saturday, her usual slot at 10 a.m. She’d called Dolly earlier in the week to confirm, her voice steady but firm. “I want to keep it shaved,” she’d said. “Same as last time—steamed towel, hot lather, three full razor shaves to keep it smooth. But this time, Dolly, I want my eyebrows gone too. They need to be shaved off completely.” Dolly had paused on the other end of the line, likely taking a drag from her ever-present cigarette, before replying, “Alright, Beth. Whatever you want.”
That Saturday morning, Beth walked into Dolly’s Beauty Salon, her bald head catching the light as she stepped through the door. The other women in the salon—some in rollers, others flipping through Ladies’ Home Journal—glanced up, their curiosity still piqued from the previous week’s spectacle. Beth wore a simple navy shift dress, her lack of hair making her sharp cheekbones and green eyes more prominent. She sat in the pink vinyl chair, the familiar scent of hairspray lingering in the air, though she no longer needed it. Dolly, her apron stained with hair dye and a cigarette dangling from her lips, gave Beth a knowing nod. “Back for more, huh?” she said, her tone a mix of amusement and respect.
Dolly started with Beth’s scalp. A week’s worth of growth had left a faint stubble, barely visible but enough for Beth to feel when she ran her hand over her head each morning. Dolly heated a towel with steam until it was hot to the touch, then wrapped it around Beth’s scalp, letting the warmth soften the stubble for a few minutes. She removed the towel and applied a thick layer of hot shaving cream, the lavender scent filling the air, and began the first shave with a straight razor. Her strokes were precise, gliding over the curves of Beth’s head, scraping away the stubble in smooth, even passes. After wiping the scalp clean with a warm cloth, Dolly repeated the process: another steamed towel, more hot lather, and a second shave to ensure no hair remained. Beth insisted on a third round, just as she had the first time. “I want it perfectly smooth, Dolly,” she said, her voice unwavering. Dolly obliged, applying a third steamed towel, a third layer of lather, and a third shave, leaving Beth’s scalp as glossy and hairless as it had been the week before.
Then came the eyebrows. Beth’s brows were naturally arched, a medium brown that had always framed her face neatly, even without the bouffant to draw attention away. But now, with her bald head, she felt they looked out of place—like remnants of a past she was shedding entirely. “Take them off,” she told Dolly, leaning back in the chair. Dolly hesitated for a moment, then nodded. She dabbed a bit of hot lather over Beth’s eyebrows, the foam covering the hair completely. Using the same straight razor, she carefully shaved each brow, her hands steady as she followed the natural arch, removing every strand. She wiped the area clean with a warm cloth, then repeated the process twice more at Beth’s request, ensuring not a single hair remained. When it was done, Beth’s face was completely hairless—scalp, brows, everything. She ran her fingers over the smooth skin where her eyebrows had been, feeling the strange, bare softness, and smiled faintly.
Dolly stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron. “Well, Beth, you’re as smooth as can be,” she said, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke. Beth looked in the mirror, her reflection almost unrecognizable. Without her eyebrows, her face looked even more stark—her eyes wider, her expression raw and unguarded. The absence of hair anywhere on her head gave her an almost otherworldly appearance, like a mannequin or a sculpture, but Beth felt powerful in her bareness. She thanked Dolly, paid her $2 for the service, and stepped out into the May morning.
The air felt even cooler now, brushing against her scalp and the newly shaved skin above her eyes. Beth walked through Willow Creek with her head held high, aware of the stares but unbothered by them. She had shed another layer of her old self, the eyebrows a final tether to the woman who had spent four years maintaining a bouffant. Now, completely hairless, she felt more liberated than ever, ready to embrace 1964 on her own terms—smooth, bold, and unapologetically free.
By the spring of 1968, Beth Carter had spent four years as bald and browless as the day she first asked Dolly to shave her head in May 1964. The small town of Willow Creek had grown accustomed to her striking appearance—her smooth, gleaming scalp and the bare skin where her eyebrows once arched. For four years, Beth had faithfully returned to Dolly’s Beauty Salon every week, sitting in the pink vinyl chair for her ritual: three full razor shaves with steamed towels and lavender-scented hot lather to keep her scalp and brow area perfectly smooth. The process had become as routine as her bouffant maintenance once was, but far simpler—no combs, no hairspray, just the clean swipe of a razor. Beth, now 36, still taught third grade, her bald head a bold statement in a world where miniskirts and long, flowing hair were starting to dominate fashion. She loved the freedom, the coolness of her scalp, the way she no longer needed to fuss over her appearance. Her bare face and head had become her identity, as iconic in Willow Creek as her towering bouffant had been.
But as 1968 bloomed, Beth began to reflect on the past four years, just as she had with her bouffant in 1964. Back then, four years of maintaining her hairstyle had prompted a radical change—a complete shave inspired by the French women in that wartime documentary. Now, four years into her baldness, she didn’t crave another transformation. Instead, she wanted to double down, to make her baldness permanent, a lifelong commitment to the freedom she’d found. The weekly shaves were quick and affordable—$2 a session—but Beth wanted to eliminate even that small ritual. She wanted her scalp and brow area to be hairless forever, with no stubble, no regrowth, no maintenance at all.
Beth began researching her options. She’d heard about electrolysis, a new technique that promised permanent hair removal by using an electric current to destroy hair follicles. She found a few salons in nearby cities offering it, but the process was expensive—$10 per session, with multiple sessions needed for each follicle—and painfully slow, requiring hours to cover an area as large as her scalp and brows. Worse, Dolly’s Beauty Salon didn’t offer electrolysis; Dolly was old-school, her expertise rooted in rollers, hairspray, and razors. Beth wasn’t ready to travel to the city or spend a small fortune, so she asked Dolly if there was another way.
Dolly, leaning against the salon counter with a cigarette in hand, had an answer. “Waxing,” she said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “I do it in the spring for the gals getting ready for swimsuit season. Most of ’em come to my back room for their privates, but it works anywhere—scalp, brows, you name it. If you keep at it regular, it can kill the hair follicles for good.” Dolly explained that repeated waxing damaged the follicles over time. Each session ripped the hair out by the root, and as the follicles tried to heal and regrow, waxing again caused further trauma. Eventually, with enough persistence, the follicles would give up, leading to permanent baldness. “It’s not overnight,” Dolly warned, “but you’ll see a big difference after the first go. By the third round, most of the follicles should start dying off. The first three will hurt like hell, especially the first, but after that, it’s smooth sailing. You barely feel it.”
Beth listened intently, her hand absently touching her scalp, where a quarter-inch of stubble had grown since her last shave. “Do you think it’ll work?” she asked. “Can I really become permanently bald?” Dolly nodded, eyeing Beth’s scalp. “That stubble’s plenty for the wax to grip. There’s always a wave of hair waiting to sprout, but we’ll rip it out before it gets a chance. Three rounds should do serious damage to those follicles. You ready to start?”
Beth didn’t hesitate. “Let’s do it,” she said, her voice steady. Dolly led her to the back room, a small space with a reclining chair, a sink, and a shelf lined with jars of wax and muslin strips. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and melted beeswax. Dolly heated a pot of hard wax until it was warm and pliable, then spread a thin layer over a section of Beth’s scalp with a wooden spatula. The wax felt warm, almost soothing, as it hardened around the stubble. Dolly pressed a muslin strip over the wax, smoothed it down, and then—without warning—ripped it off in one swift motion. Beth gasped, the pain sharp and searing, like a thousand tiny needles. Her eyes watered, but she gritted her teeth as Dolly moved to the next section, spreading wax, applying strips, and ripping them away. Each pull was agonizing, but Beth focused on the goal: permanent baldness.
Dolly worked methodically, covering Beth’s entire scalp, then moved to the brow area. The skin there was more sensitive, and Beth clenched her fists as the wax tore away the faint stubble where her eyebrows had once been. When it was over, Dolly wiped Beth’s scalp and brow area with a cool, aloe-soaked cloth to soothe the redness. Beth touched her head, marveling at the smoothness—smoother even than after a razor shave, with no trace of stubble. “First one’s the worst,” Dolly said, lighting another cigarette. “Come back in two weeks. The next wave of hair’ll be weaker, and it’ll hurt less.”
Beth returned every two weeks, as instructed. The second waxing was still painful, but less so; the hair that grew back was finer, sparser. By the third session, the pain was minimal, and Beth noticed patches where no hair returned at all. Dolly was right—the follicles were dying off. Beth committed to the process, scheduling waxing sessions every two to three weeks to catch any lingering growth. By late summer, her scalp and brow area were nearly hairless, with only a few stubborn patches requiring occasional touch-ups. Dolly estimated that after a year of regular waxing, Beth’s baldness would be permanent, the follicles too damaged to ever produce hair again.
As 1968 rolled on, Beth felt a quiet triumph. She had turned her baldness from a choice into a destiny, a lifelong rejection of the bouffant culture she’d once embraced. The pain of those early waxing sessions was worth it for the promise of a smooth, hairless head forever. Willow Creek still stared, but Beth didn’t care. She was writing her own story, one wax strip at a time, in a world that was learning to make room for women like her—bold, unapologetic, and permanently free.
By the spring of 1969, Beth Carter’s transformation into a permanently bald and browless woman was nearly complete. Five years had passed since she first shed her towering bouffant in 1964, and now, at 37, she had spent the last year of those five years pursuing permanent hairlessness through biweekly waxing sessions at Dolly’s Beauty Salon in Willow Creek. The regular waxing, as Dolly had promised, had devastated her hair follicles. Beth’s scalp and brow area were now almost entirely devoid of hair, with only the rare, wispy strand occasionally surfacing—too fine and sparse to require much effort. Her biweekly visits to Dolly’s, once a painful ordeal of ripping out stubble, had evolved into something gentler, almost luxurious. Yet, Beth found herself missing the thrill of the waxing process, the sharp tug of hair being torn from its roots. Dolly, ever resourceful, had a plan to reignite that spark.
Beth’s waxing sessions in 1969 were a far cry from the searing pain of her first rounds in 1968. Every two weeks, she’d walk into Dolly’s at her usual 10 a.m. Saturday slot, sit in the pink vinyl chair, and head to the back room where the waxing station awaited. Dolly would heat the hard wax, the familiar scent of melted beeswax filling the air, and spread a thin layer over Beth’s scalp. But instead of the satisfying rip of muslin strips, Dolly often found nothing to grip. Beth’s scalp gleamed under the salon lights, smooth as porcelain, with no visible stubble. The brow area was equally bare, the skin soft and unmarred by even the faintest hair. On the rare occasion Dolly spotted a rogue strand—perhaps one or two on her scalp, finer than a spider’s thread—she’d apply a tiny dab of wax, press a small strip, and pull it away with a quick flick. The sensation was barely noticeable, a faint pinch compared to the fiery pain of a year ago.
With so little hair to remove, the sessions had transformed into something else entirely. Dolly began using the time to pamper Beth, turning the waxing into a soothing ritual. After checking for stray hairs, she’d massage Beth’s scalp with warm almond oil, her fingers kneading the smooth skin in slow, circular motions. The massage loosened the tension Beth carried from her week teaching third grade, the oil leaving her scalp glossy and hydrated. For the brow area, Dolly applied a cooling aloe gel, gently rubbing it into the skin to keep it soft. The sessions, which once took 30 minutes of intense waxing, now stretched into 45 minutes of relaxation, the back room a quiet haven scented with wax and lavender. Beth loved the care, the way Dolly’s hands made her feel both grounded and liberated, but a part of her missed the old excitement—the anticipation of the wax hardening, the sharp rip, the raw thrill of hair being yanked out.
One Saturday in April 1969, as Dolly massaged Beth’s scalp after another near-hairless session, Beth sighed. “I miss the pull, Dolly,” she admitted, her voice soft. “The way it felt when the wax ripped everything out. It was… alive. Now it’s just maintenance.” Dolly, wiping her hands on her apron and lighting a cigarette, grinned. “Well, hon, why do we keep waxing just your head and brows? You’ve got hair elsewhere, don’t you? Let’s rip it out somewhere new—give you that thrill again.” Beth’s eyes lit up. “Where?” she asked. Dolly gestured to Beth’s arm, resting on the chair. “Start with your forearms. Plenty of hair there to grip, and it’ll feel just like the old days. Ready?”
Beth rolled up her sleeve, revealing her forearm, where fine, light brown hairs caught the light. She hadn’t paid much attention to her arm hair before—it was soft, unobtrusive, nothing like the thick stubble her scalp once produced. But the idea of feeling that familiar sting again excited her. “Do it,” she said, leaning back. Dolly nodded and got to work. She heated a fresh batch of hard wax, stirring it until it was warm and pliable, then spread a thin, even layer over Beth’s forearm with a wooden spatula. The wax felt warm, almost comforting, as it hardened around the fine hairs. Dolly pressed a muslin strip over the wax, smoothed it down firmly, and then—without warning—ripped it off in one swift motion.
Beth gasped, the pain sharp and electric, a vivid echo of her first scalp waxing. Her forearm tingled, the skin pink and hairless where the strip had been. Tiny red dots marked where the hairs had been torn out, but Beth’s face broke into a grin. “That’s it,” she said, almost laughing. “That’s what I’ve been missing.” Dolly chuckled, already spreading wax on the next section. She worked quickly, covering Beth’s entire forearm—wrist to elbow—in small, manageable patches. Each rip brought a fresh wave of pain, but it was a pain Beth welcomed, a reminder of the transformation she’d embraced. The fine hairs came away easily, leaving the skin smooth and slightly flushed. Dolly finished with the other forearm, the process taking about 20 minutes, and wiped both arms with a cool, aloe-soaked cloth to soothe the irritation.
Beth ran her fingers over her forearms, marveling at the silky smoothness, the absence of even the finest hairs. The sensation was different from her scalp—less intense, but still satisfying. She looked at Dolly, her eyes bright. “What’s next?” she asked, half-joking. Dolly exhaled a plume of smoke and smirked. “Legs, underarms, wherever you want. We’ll keep you smooth all over if that’s what you’re after.” For now, Beth was content with her forearms, the fresh sting lingering like a badge of her commitment to hairlessness.
As she left the salon, the spring breeze felt cool against her bare forearms, a new sensation to complement her perpetually smooth scalp and brows. Beth knew she’d be back in two weeks for her usual scalp and brow check, likely with another forearm waxing to keep the thrill alive. Her journey, which began with a bouffant and evolved into permanent baldness, was far from over. In 1969, Beth was rewriting her story once again, finding joy in the rip of wax and the smooth, hairless canvas she’d made of herself, one strip at a time.
By the fall of 1969, Beth Carter’s commitment to a hairless existence had deepened, her biweekly visits to Dolly’s Beauty Salon in Willow Creek evolving into a comprehensive ritual of waxing that extended beyond her scalp and brows. At 37, Beth had spent over a year perfecting her permanent baldness through regular waxing, her scalp and brow area now so devoid of hair that her sessions with Dolly had become more about soothing massages than hair removal. The thrill of waxing her forearms, which began in April, had reignited her love for the sharp pull of muslin strips, and she’d kept her arms under a regular waxing regimen ever since. Every two weeks, Dolly would strip away the fine hairs that dared to regrow, leaving Beth’s forearms as smooth as her gleaming scalp. But Beth craved more—she wanted to expand her hairless canvas, to feel that electric sting on new parts of her body. Next came her legs, and soon after, her private parts, each step a bold continuation of her journey toward total smoothness.
Beth’s leg waxing began in late September 1969, during one of her usual Saturday morning appointments. Her forearms had become nearly as hairless as her scalp after months of consistent waxing, with only sparse, fine hairs appearing between sessions. Eager for a fresh challenge, she asked Dolly to tackle her legs. “From ankles to thighs,” Beth said, rolling up her skirt to reveal her calves, where light brown hairs shimmered faintly in the salon’s light. Dolly, ever unfazed, nodded and led Beth to the back room, where the familiar waxing station awaited—jars of hard wax, muslin strips, and the warm scent of beeswax filling the air.
Dolly heated the wax to a pliable consistency and began with Beth’s lower legs. She spread a thin layer over Beth’s shin with a wooden spatula, the warmth soothing against her skin. Once the wax hardened, Dolly pressed a muslin strip firmly over it and ripped it off in one swift motion. Beth inhaled sharply, the pain more intense than her forearms but exhilarating, a fiery sting that radiated through her leg. The skin turned pink, hairless, and smooth, tiny red dots marking where the hairs had been uprooted. Dolly worked methodically, moving from Beth’s ankles to her calves, then her knees and thighs, waxing in small sections to ensure every hair was removed. The upper thighs were the most sensitive, the skin softer and less accustomed to such treatment, and Beth gripped the chair’s arms as Dolly pulled the strips. After both legs were done—about 40 minutes of waxing—Dolly wiped them with a cool, aloe-soaked cloth, easing the redness. Beth ran her hands over her legs, marveling at the silky texture, the absence of even the finest hairs. She scheduled leg waxing for every two weeks, alongside her scalp, brows, and forearms, thrilled by the expanding scope of her hairless identity.
By November, Beth was ready to take her waxing to its most intimate frontier: her private parts. She’d heard other women in Willow Creek talk about Dolly’s back-room waxing for swimsuit season, but Beth wasn’t preparing for a bikini—she wanted total hairlessness, from her mound to her lips to her anus. The idea was both daunting and thrilling, a final step in her quest to erase hair from her body. During her next appointment, she sat in the reclining chair in the back room and told Dolly, “I want everything gone down there. All of it—mound, lips, anus, the works.” Dolly, lighting a cigarette, raised an eyebrow but didn’t flinch. “Alright, hon. It’s gonna hurt like the devil, especially the first time, but I’ll make it quick. You sure?” Beth nodded, her heart racing with anticipation.
Dolly asked Beth to undress from the waist down and lie back, covering her with a clean towel for modesty. She heated a fresh batch of hard wax, stirring it until it was warm but not scalding, and began with Beth’s pubic mound. Using a small spatula, Dolly spread a thin layer of wax over the coarse, curly hairs, working in small patches to manage the sensitivity. The wax felt warm, almost comforting, as it hardened. Dolly pressed a muslin strip over the wax, smoothed it down, and ripped it off with a quick, practiced motion. Beth gasped, the pain sharp and searing, far more intense than her legs or forearms. It was a deep, visceral sting that made her eyes water, but she clenched her fists and nodded for Dolly to continue. Dolly moved across the mound, waxing in small sections, each rip pulling away thick hairs and leaving the skin flushed and smooth.
Next came the labia, where the skin was softer and more delicate. Dolly applied the wax with extra care, using smaller amounts to avoid irritating the sensitive area. The first rip made Beth bite her lip, the pain a white-hot jolt that radiated through her core. Dolly worked quickly, her hands steady, waxing the outer and inner labia with precision. Each pull was a test of Beth’s resolve, but she focused on the result—smoothness, freedom, the same liberation she’d found with her scalp. Dolly wiped the area with a cool cloth between patches, soothing the raw skin. Finally, she moved to the anus, an area Beth hadn’t anticipated being so sensitive. Dolly spread a tiny amount of wax around the delicate skin, applied a small strip, and pulled. Beth let out a muffled yelp, the pain brief but piercing, like a needle’s prick. Dolly repeated the process twice more to ensure every hair was gone, then cleaned the entire area with aloe gel, the coolness a welcome relief.
The session took nearly an hour, longer than any of Beth’s previous waxings, and left her private parts red and tender but completely hairless. Dolly handed Beth a mirror to inspect the results. Beth marveled at the smoothness of her mound, the clean lines of her labia, the bare skin around her anus—every inch as sleek as her scalp. The pain had been worth it; she felt a new level of completeness, her body a unified canvas of hairlessness. Dolly warned her that the first few sessions would be the most painful, but regular waxing every two weeks would weaken the follicles, just as it had on her scalp, potentially leading to permanent results.
Beth left the salon that day with a slight limp, the tenderness in her private parts a reminder of her boldness, but her heart was light. She continued her biweekly regimen—scalp, brows, forearms, legs, and now her entire pelvic region—each session reinforcing her commitment. The pain of waxing her private parts lessened with each visit, the hairs growing back finer and sparser, just as Dolly predicted. By early 1970, Beth’s body was a testament to her vision: smooth, hairless, and unapologetically her own. In a world of long hair and counterculture, Beth Carter stood apart, her waxing rituals a defiant celebration of freedom and control, one rip at a time.
Great story, and one I can truly appreciate, having spent a good deal of my adult life making my entire body a hairless canvas as well.
It’s nice to know other people share my thoughts. A hairless body is the ultimate aesthetic.