Bouffant Shave
Chapter One: The Unplucked Maiden of Milan
In the autumn of 1420, Milan thrummed with the rhythm of artisans’ tools and the hum of merchants’ voices, all beneath the skeletal spires of the unfinished Duomo. The city was a crucible of ambition and tradition, where even lower noble families like the House of Bellini fought to preserve their precarious status. Their modest palazzo, tucked near the ancient Sant’Ambrogio basilica, was alive with preparations on this October day, for it was Isabelle Bellini’s twenty-second birthday.
Isabelle was a rarity in Milanese society, a woman of sharp intellect and unyielding spirit who, at twenty-two, remained unmarried. In a world where girls were often betrothed by sixteen, her spinsterhood was a scandal whispered in the halls of noble gatherings. The Bellinis, respected but far from wealthy, felt the sting of her status keenly. Her mother, Signora Teresa Bellini, a woman of forty with a face carved by worry, had spent years seeking a suitable match for her eldest daughter, but Isabelle’s defiance of feminine ideals had thwarted every effort.
At fifteen, Teresa had sat Isabelle down in their dimly lit solar, its faded tapestries a reminder of better days, and presented her with a pair of fine Venetian tweezers, their silver handles gleaming like a promise. “Beauty is a noblewoman’s shield,” Teresa had said, her voice a blend of urgency and despair. “Your eyebrows are too thick, too wild, and your hairline—Madonna santa, it’s far too low, like a peasant’s. No wealthy noble will court a girl who looks so… untamed.” She had urged Isabelle to begin plucking, a ritual as sacred to Milanese women as their rosaries. But Isabelle, with her chestnut curls and defiant hazel eyes, had refused. “My face is mine,” she had declared, her tone resolute. Year after year, she resisted, even as Teresa’s pleas grew more frantic.
Now, at twenty-two, Isabelle’s unplucked brows and low, natural hairline were the stuff of family legend—and shame. Her younger sisters, Maria and Lucia, married at seventeen and sixteen, had submitted to the tweezers, their faces molded into the high, arched ideals of the day. Isabelle, however, stood apart, her stubbornness both a point of pride and a perilous gamble.
The Bellini palazzo was adorned with garlands of late roses for Isabelle’s birthday, a modest feast laid out to uphold the family’s dignity. The oak table in the dining hall sagged under platters of roasted quail, candied figs, and marzipan cakes, a display that strained their purse but affirmed their status. The guests were few but significant: Teresa; her three sisters—Cari, Lisa, and Donna, all formidable Bellini matrons; and a smattering of cousins and local gentry. The air was heavy with beeswax and expectation.
As the meal drew to a close, the Bellini women rose to present their gifts. One by one, Isabelle’s aunts approached, each carrying a small velvet pouch. Cari, her hair streaked with silver, handed Isabelle hers first. “For your future, cara,” she said, her eyes sharp with meaning. Isabelle opened the pouch, revealing a pair of Venetian tweezers, their tips razor-fine, their handles etched with delicate scrolls. Lisa followed, her tweezers adorned with a tiny emerald. Donna, ever theatrical, presented hers with a flourish, the silver catching the candlelight. Finally, Teresa placed her own pouch in Isabelle’s hands, her gaze a mix of hope and resolve.
Isabelle’s stomach twisted as she understood the message. Four pairs of tweezers, each a command: Pluck now, or be cast aside forever. The room grew still, every eye on her. She felt the weight of her family’s fear—that her defiance would condemn her to a life of obscurity, a burden on her sisters’ households.
For a moment, Isabelle considered rebellion, letting the tweezers fall to the table in defiance. But the sight of her mother’s trembling hands, the weary determination in her aunts’ faces, and the ache of her own solitude softened her resolve. She was weary of the fight, weary of being the outlier. With a small, resigned smile, she stood and faced the women. “Alright,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I surrender. Let’s get started.”
A wave of relief swept the room. Teresa’s stern face softened, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Good girl,” she said, clapping her hands. “Come, sit here.” She pointed to the floor before her chair, a cushioned stool placed at her feet. “Sit between my legs, backside to me, and tilt your head back.”
Isabelle hesitated, her cheeks warming at the intimacy of the act. But she obeyed, lowering herself to the floor and settling between her mother’s knees. She tilted her head back, resting it in Teresa’s lap, her thick chestnut hair spilling over her mother’s skirts like a river of autumn leaves. The scent of rosemary from Teresa’s gown steadied her as she braced for the ordeal.
Teresa took up her tweezers, her movements swift and assured. “Hold still, cara,” she murmured, her voice both command and comfort. The first pluck was a sharp sting at the base of Isabelle’s right eyebrow. Isabelle flinched, her fingers gripping her gown, but she remained silent. Teresa worked with ferocious intensity, her tweezers darting like a weaver’s shuttle, pulling hairs with a relentless rhythm. Pluck, pluck, pluck—the sound was a steady drumbeat, each tug reshaping Isabelle’s face into something new.
But the task was monumental. Isabelle’s brows were a wild thicket, untouched for years, and her hairline was stubbornly low, framing her face in a way that was natural but utterly unfashionable. Teresa paused, her brow creasing as she assessed the challenge. Behind closed doors, she and her sisters had agreed: at twenty-two, Isabelle was no longer a fresh-faced maiden. Many men would overlook her unless her beauty was striking, alluring, impossible to ignore. They had decided that her brows must be plucked to baldness, sculpted into the faintest, most delicate arches, and her hairline pushed dramatically back to create a bold, enticing forehead—a feature that would turn heads and spark desire.
Teresa envisioned a line across Isabelle’s head, from the front of one ear to the other, nearly 7.5 centimeters back from her natural hairline. It was a drastic measure, one that would strip away a vast swath of hair, leaving her forehead as smooth and expansive as a Venetian mirror. Such a transformation would make Isabelle stand out, her face a canvas of daring beauty that no noble could dismiss.
“This is too much for one,” Teresa declared, her voice resolute. She turned to her sisters, who had been watching with keen anticipation. “Cari, Lisa, Donna—join me. We’ll do this together.”
The aunts moved swiftly, each retrieving their gifted tweezers. Teresa issued her commands with the precision of a condottiero. “Cari, take her right brow. Lisa, you get her left. Donna and I will tackle the hairline. We must work as one, and we must be bold—her brows to baldness, her hairline well back. She must be unforgettable.”
The women encircled Isabelle, their skirts rustling as they took their positions. Cari knelt to Isabelle’s right, her tweezers gleaming like a surgeon’s tool. Lisa mirrored her on the left, her eyes narrowed with focus. Teresa and Donna hovered above, their tweezers poised to carve away the hairline. Isabelle, reclining in her mother’s lap, felt a mix of dread and resignation, her heart pounding as she sensed the scale of what was to come.
“Ready?” Teresa asked, her voice low and commanding. The aunts nodded, their faces set with purpose. “Begin.”
In perfect unison, the tweezers struck. Pluck, pluck, pluck—the sound erupted like a storm, a relentless chorus of transformation. Cari’s tweezers tore through Isabelle’s right brow, pulling every hair with ruthless precision, reducing the thicket to bare skin. Lisa matched her sister’s pace on the left, her tweezers stripping away the dense growth until only the faintest outline remained, a ghostly arch that would later be painted with kohl. Teresa and Donna attacked the hairline, their tweezers yanking at the fine hairs along Isabelle’s forehead, working backward in a meticulous assault. They aimed for that imagined line, 7.5 centimeters back, a boundary that would leave her forehead vast and striking, a beacon of allure.
The sensation was a firestorm of tiny stings, each pluck a sharp prick that made Isabelle’s eyes water. Her hands clenched in her lap, her knuckles white, but she held still, her head cradled in her mother’s lap. Hairs drifted to the floor like fallen leaves, piling around her shoulders in a soft, chestnut mound. The cousins and guests watched in awed silence, some wide-eyed at the audacity of the act, others nodding at the family’s resolve. A few younger cousins stifled gasps as the swath of Isabelle’s hairline vanished, her forehead growing ever broader.
Teresa’s voice cut through the rhythm, sharp and commanding. “Cari, keep it clean—no stray hairs. Lisa, match her pace, we need symmetry. Donna, pull harder, we’re not halfway there!” The aunts obeyed, their tweezers flashing in the candlelight, their breaths synchronized in their shared mission. Cari and Lisa worked with surgical focus, their tweezers stripping Isabelle’s brows to smooth, bald skin, leaving only the subtlest curve to frame her eyes. Teresa and Donna were relentless, their tweezers carving a new hairline, inching backward with each pluck, the bare skin of Isabelle’s forehead gleaming under the candlelight.
The aunts’ chatter began to fill the room, a mix of encouragement and urgency. “This will make her unforgettable,” Cari said, her voice firm. “No man will look away from that forehead,” Lisa added, a hint of pride in her tone. Donna, dramatic as ever, exclaimed, “She’ll be a vision, like a saint in a fresco!” Teresa, her face taut with concentration, murmured, “Hold strong, Isabelle. This is for your future.”
Isabelle’s face burned, not just from the plucking but from the weight of her transformation. She had spent years defending her natural features, her thick brows and low hairline a quiet rebellion against convention. Now, with each pluck, she felt that rebellion crumble, replaced by a beauty she could scarcely imagine. Would this bold, bald-browed, high-foreheaded version of herself draw the suitors her family craved? Would it make her feel more a lady—or less herself?
The task was Herculean, and the aunts’ initial zeal began to falter as their fingers cramped and their eyes strained. Isabelle’s brows were nearly gone, reduced to smooth skin with only the faintest outline, but her hairline was only partially retreated, the 7.5-centimeter mark still distant. A vast swath of hair had been plucked, but more remained. Teresa glanced at her sisters, her jaw set with determination. “We’re not done,” she said firmly. “But we’ll finish this, for Isabelle’s sake.”
The aunts nodded, their tweezers raised like weapons, ready for the next onslaught. Isabelle, her head still in her mother’s lap, closed her eyes and drew a shaky breath, bracing for the rest of her rebirth.
To be continued…
Chapter Two: The Price of Transformation
The Bellini palazzo was hushed, save for the relentless pluck, pluck, pluck that echoed through the dining hall. For nearly two hours, the four Bellini women—Teresa and her sisters Cari, Lisa, and Donna—labored over Isabelle, their Venetian tweezers flashing like tiny swords in the candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and the faint metallic tang of blood, a testament to the ferocity of their task. Isabelle, reclining between her mother’s knees, her head tilted back in Teresa’s lap, endured the ordeal with clenched fists and shallow breaths, her face a battlefield of transformation.
The aunts had agreed that Isabelle, at twenty-two, needed a beauty so striking it would eclipse her age and unwed status. Her eyebrows, once thick and defiant, were to be plucked to baldness, leaving only the faintest, kohl-painted arches. Her hairline, naturally low and peasant-like, was to be pushed back a dramatic 7.5 centimeters, from the front of one ear to the other, creating a vast, alluring forehead that would command attention. This was no mere grooming—it was a reinvention, a desperate bid to secure Isabelle’s future in the rigid hierarchy of Milanese nobility.
The eyebrows were the first to fall. Cari and Lisa, stationed at Isabelle’s right and left, worked in perfect unison, their tweezers stripping away the dense thicket of hairs with ruthless efficiency. Within twenty minutes, the brows were gone, reduced to smooth, bald skin. But the skin beneath was not unscathed. Tiny beads of blood welled up where follicles had been torn, and small, angry bumps dotted the area, a raw testament to the violence of the act. Isabelle winced with each pluck, her hazel eyes watering, but she held still, her mother’s firm hands anchoring her head.
The hairline, however, was a far greater challenge. The 7.5-centimeter swath of hair to be removed was a dense forest, each strand a stubborn reminder of Isabelle’s natural state. Teresa and Donna, tasked with this monumental effort, worked with grim determination, their tweezers pulling hairs in a steady rhythm. But the sheer volume of hair overwhelmed them. After thirty minutes, their fingers began to cramp, their wrists aching from the repetitive motion. Teresa, ever the strategist, called for a system of shifts. “Ten minutes each,” she declared, “then we rotate. We’ll not stop until it’s done.”
The aunts complied, organizing into pairs. Teresa and Donna would pluck for ten minutes, then step back to flex their cramped hands while Cari and Lisa took over. The rotation ensured steady progress, but it was grueling. The pile of chestnut hairs on the floor grew, a soft mound that spilled across Isabelle’s shoulders and dusted the hem of her mother’s gown. The guests—cousins and local gentry—watched in a mix of awe and unease, some whispering about the audacity of such a transformation, others marveling at the Bellini women’s resolve. A few younger cousins stifled giggles, their eyes wide at the sight of Isabelle’s forehead expanding with each pluck.
Isabelle’s face burned, a constellation of stings that blurred into a single, throbbing ache. The eyebrow area, now bald, was tender and swollen, the blood and bumps giving her a raw, almost wounded appearance. Her forehead, too, was a battleground. As the hairline receded, the newly exposed skin was dotted with pinpricks of blood and small, inflamed bumps, the result of follicles torn from their roots. The line from ear to ear, 7.5 centimeters back, was a distant goal, but the aunts pressed on, their tweezers carving a new frontier across her scalp. The bare skin stretched well into her crown, gleaming under the candlelight, a vast expanse that felt both foreign and vulnerable.
After nearly two hours, the rhythm of plucking slowed. Cari and Lisa, having finished the brows early, had joined the hairline effort, their tweezers supplementing Teresa and Donna’s work. The aunts’ faces were flushed, their fingers trembling from exertion, but their determination held. Finally, Lisa stepped back, her tweezers dangling in her hand. She surveyed Isabelle’s forehead, now a smooth, pale expanse stretching far beyond its natural bounds, and declared, “She’s done!”
A murmur rippled through the room. The aunts exhaled, their shoulders sagging with relief. Isabelle, her face throbbing and her eyes half-closed from exhaustion, stirred in her mother’s lap. “I want to see,” she said, her voice hoarse but insistent. She reached toward the small silver mirror on the table, its polished surface promising a glimpse of her new self.
“No!” Teresa snapped, her hand shooting out to cover the mirror. Her voice softened, but her tone was firm. “Not yet, cara. In a few days, when the bumps and swelling subside. You’ll see the refinement, not the mess.” She gestured to Isabelle’s face, where blood drops and inflamed bumps marred the bald brows and vast forehead. “This is raw now, but it will be beautiful. Trust us.”
Isabelle nodded, understanding the wisdom in her mother’s words. The shock of seeing her face bloodied and swollen, her brows gone and her forehead unnaturally broad, would be too much. She wanted to see the feminine ideal her family envisioned, not the carnage of the process. She leaned back into her mother’s lap, her body heavy with fatigue.
Teresa called for a small jar of bald’s eyesalve, a common antiseptic ointment made from herbs and animal fat, its sharp, earthy scent filling the air. She dipped her fingers into the jar and began rubbing the salve across Isabelle’s brows and forehead, her touch gentle but thorough. The cool ointment soothed the burning skin, cleaning away the tiny blood drops and easing the inflammation. Cari and Lisa joined in, their fingers spreading the salve across the vast expanse of Isabelle’s forehead, ensuring every bump and raw patch was coated. The salve left a faint sheen, giving Isabelle’s face an almost ethereal glow under the candlelight.
As they worked, Teresa spoke, her voice calm but authoritative. “In a couple of weeks, we’ll need to do this again. The hairs below the skin are waiting to emerge, and they’ll need plucking. It won’t be as painful or dramatic as today—just maintenance to keep you perfect.” She smoothed a final layer of salve across Isabelle’s forehead, her fingers lingering as if sealing a promise. “But for now, you’ve done enough.”
The aunts stepped back, their tweezers clattering onto the table, their hands cramped and red from the ordeal. The guests, sensing the moment’s weight, began to disperse, murmuring praises for the Bellini women’s dedication. Isabelle’s cousins stole glances at her transformed face, their expressions a mix of curiosity and pity.
Teresa helped Isabelle to her feet, her hands steadying her daughter’s trembling frame. “Now, off to bed,” she said, her voice soft but final. “Rest, cara. You’ve been reborn tonight.”
Isabelle nodded, her legs unsteady as she moved toward the stone staircase leading to her chamber. Her face throbbed, the salve cooling but not erasing the ache of her transformation. As she climbed the stairs, she felt the weight of her new self—bald brows, a forehead that stretched into her crown, a face no longer her own. What would she see in the mirror in a few days? Would it be the alluring beauty her family promised, or a stranger she could not recognize?
The palazzo grew quiet, the candles flickering low. In her chamber, Isabelle sank onto her narrow bed, the linen cool against her skin. She closed her eyes, the memory of the tweezers’ relentless pluck echoing in her mind, and drifted into a fitful sleep, her future as uncertain as the face she had yet to see.
To be continued…
Chapter Three: The Mirror’s Truth
The days following Isabelle’s transformation were a haze of anticipation and unease in the Bellini palazzo. The dining hall, once alive with the frenetic pluck of tweezers, now stood quiet, its long oak table cleared of feast and fervor. Isabelle, confined to her chamber by her mother’s decree, fretted in the dim light of her narrow window. Her face, still tender from the two-hour plucking ordeal, felt foreign to her touch—smooth in places it had never been, raw and sensitive where her brows and hairline once thrived. She longed to see the result, to confront the new self her mother and aunts had sculpted, but Teresa was resolute.
On the second day, Isabelle stood before her mother in the solar, her hands clasped tightly. “Please, Mama, let me see,” she pleaded, her voice a mix of impatience and dread. “I need to know what I am now.” Teresa, seated with a piece of embroidery, looked up, her face stern but not unkind. “No, cara,” she said firmly, setting her needle aside. “The swelling is still too much, the bumps too red. You’d see only the wounds, not the beauty. Patience, Isabelle. Two more days.” Isabelle’s shoulders slumped, her fingers brushing the bare skin above her eyes, where tiny scabs marked the absence of her brows. She nodded, retreating to her chamber, where she paced and fretted, her mind conjuring images of a face she could not yet claim.
The waiting was torture. Isabelle avoided the palazzo’s servants, fearing their curious stares, and kept to her room, where she read psalms or traced the outlines of her altered face with tentative fingers. The vastness of her forehead, stretching well into her crown, felt like an open plain, exposed and vulnerable. The absence of her eyebrows left her face strangely blank, as if a vital part of her expression had been erased. She wondered if she would recognize herself—or if she would see a stranger, a creation of her family’s ambition.
By the fourth day, the healing was complete. The swelling had subsided, the bumps smoothed into soft, pale skin. The tiny scabs had flaked away, leaving no trace of the blood that had dotted her brow ridge and forehead. Isabelle woke that morning with a flutter of hope, sensing the change in her mother’s demeanor. Teresa entered her chamber, her eyes bright with approval. “Come, cara,” she said, her voice warm. “It’s time.”
Teresa led Isabelle to the solar, where an ancient family mirror hung on the wall. The mirror, a heavy oval framed in carved oak, had been re-silvered within the past year, its surface flawless, offering a perfect reflection unmarred by ripples or distortions. It was a relic of the Bellini family’s prouder days, a treasure that had witnessed generations of their triumphs and trials. Teresa positioned Isabelle before it, stepping back to let her daughter face the truth alone.
Isabelle gazed into the mirror, and for a moment, her breath caught in her throat. She was both shocked and amazed, her heart torn between disbelief and awe. The face staring back was not her own—or so it seemed. Facing straight on, she looked startlingly bald, as if her scalp had swallowed her features. Her eyebrows were utterly gone, the skin above her eyes smooth and bare, a pale canvas unbroken by even the faintest hair. Her forehead stretched endlessly upward, a vast, gleaming expanse that reached 7.5 centimeters back from its natural line, from the front of one ear to the other. It merged seamlessly with her crown, creating an illusion of hairlessness that was jarring, almost otherworldly. The absence of brows and the dramatic recession of her hairline stripped her face of its familiar contours, leaving her eyes and mouth to float in a sea of smooth skin.
Yet, as she tilted her head and studied the reflection, the amazement overtook the shock. The transformation was undeniably feminine, a bold embodiment of Milanese fashion. Her bald brow ridge, free of any hair, gave her eyes a striking prominence, their hazel depths framed by the subtlest curve of skin where kohl would soon trace delicate arches. Her forehead, so vast and smooth, was a canvas of elegance, its high, unbroken plane a mark of nobility that no peasant could claim. The chestnut curls that remained began far back, cascading from a point high on her scalp, their richness a stark contrast to the pale expanse below. She looked like a figure from a fresco, a saint or goddess sculpted for adoration.
Teresa stepped closer, her hand resting on Isabelle’s shoulder. “It came out very nice,” she said, her voice soft with pride. She reached up, her fingers gliding across the smooth skin of Isabelle’s forehead, tracing the vast expanse with a mother’s tenderness. “Feel how perfect it is,” she murmured, her touch lingering on the bare brow ridge, then sweeping upward to the high hairline. “We went very high, as you see. The bishop might tut and call it too revealing, but the men of Milan—they’ll be enticed. No noble will overlook you now.”
Isabelle nodded, her eyes still fixed on the mirror. She understood her mother’s words. The transformation was daring, perhaps even scandalous by the Church’s austere standards, but it was calculated. Her face, once stubbornly natural, now radiated a provocative allure, a beauty that demanded attention. The vast forehead and bald brows were not just fashionable—they were a statement, a declaration that Isabelle Bellini was no ordinary maiden. She could imagine the whispers at court, the lingering glances of wealthy suitors, their curiosity piqued by her striking appearance.
Teresa’s voice broke her reverie. “Now, remember,” she said, her tone practical, “fresh hairs will come forth. The roots beneath the skin are stubborn, and they’ll try to return. Your aunts will visit next Friday, and we’ll have a plucking party to keep you smooth. It won’t be like before—just a quick task to catch the new growth.”
Isabelle smiled, a spark of confidence in her eyes. “This time, I look forward to it,” she said, her voice steady. The ordeal of the first plucking had been a trial, but the mirror’s truth had shifted something within her. She felt a flicker of pride in her new face, a sense of ownership over the beauty her family had crafted.
Teresa nodded, pleased. “Good. After next Friday, the tweezers will stay in this drawer,” she said, gesturing to a small wooden box on the solar’s table. “You can do the maintenance plucking yourself thereafter. Stay at it, Isabelle, and eventually, you’ll achieve an eternal smoothness. Your brow ridge and forehead will learn that hairs are no longer welcome, and they’ll surrender forever. It takes diligence, but you’ll get there.”
Isabelle touched her forehead, her fingers marveling at its silken texture. The idea of eternal smoothness, of a face forever free of unwanted hair, was both daunting and exhilarating. She imagined herself years from now, her forehead as flawless as the mirror before her, her beauty a lasting triumph over nature’s defiance.
Teresa guided her daughter away from the mirror, her hand gentle but firm. “Now, rest,” she said. “You’ve faced a great change, and there’s more to come. The world will see you soon enough.”
Isabelle returned to her chamber, her steps lighter than they had been in days. She lay on her bed, the linen cool against her skin, and closed her eyes. The mirror’s image lingered in her mind—shocking, yes, but also captivating. She was no longer the Isabelle of old, the stubborn girl with mannish brows and a low hairline. She was something new, something bold, a woman poised to claim her place in Milan’s unforgiving society.
To be continued…
Chapter Four: The Plucking Party and the Triumph of Isabelle
The Bellini palazzo buzzed with a newfound lightness on the Friday following Isabelle’s mirror revelation. The aunts—Cari, Lisa, and Donna—arrived at midday, their laughter echoing through the stone corridors as they gathered in the solar for what they dubbed the “plucking party.” Unlike the tense, arduous ordeal of Isabelle’s initial transformation, this gathering was joyous, a celebration of her rebirth as a vision of Milanese beauty. The room was bright with sunlight streaming through the narrow windows, and a small table held a pitcher of watered wine, almond biscuits, and, of course, the four pairs of Venetian tweezers, their silver handles gleaming like trophies.
Isabelle sat on a cushioned stool, her posture relaxed, a smile playing on her lips. The memory of the first plucking’s pain lingered, but the mirror’s truth had kindled a spark of confidence within her. Her mother, Teresa, stood nearby, her face radiant with pride as she watched her sisters prepare. The aunts, dressed in their finest woolen gowns, were in high spirits, their chatter filled with teasing and encouragement.
“Look at her!” Cari exclaimed, clapping her hands as she surveyed Isabelle’s face. “A goddess, no less!” Lisa nodded, her eyes tracing the vast, smooth expanse of Isabelle’s forehead. “The men of Milan won’t know what hit them,” she said, chuckling. Donna, ever dramatic, swept her hand theatrically. “She’s a marvel, a siren with a forehead to rival the heavens!”
Isabelle’s transformation was indeed breathtaking. Her brow ridge, once thick with defiant hairs, was now utterly bald, the skin smooth and pale, a perfect canvas that drew the eye to her expressive hazel gaze. No kohl would trace artificial arches for her; the aunts had agreed that her bare brows were her signature, a bold declaration of her uniqueness. The absence of eyebrows gave her face an ethereal quality, her eyes seeming larger, more soulful, as if they held secrets no man could resist uncovering. Her forehead, pushed back 7.5 centimeters from its natural line, was a masterpiece of elegance, stretching seamlessly into her crown. The chestnut curls that began far back cascaded in rich waves, their contrast with the pale expanse below making her appear both regal and provocative. She was no longer the mannish maiden her mother had feared—she was a vision of feminine allure, her beauty so striking it seemed to demand devotion.
The plucking itself was a light affair compared to the first session. The aunts took turns, each wielding her tweezers with practiced ease. The new hairs—fine, tentative strands emerging from dormant follicles—were sparse and easily dispatched. Cari worked on the brow ridge, her tweezers snipping at the occasional sprout with a gentle tug. Lisa and Donna focused on the forehead, ensuring no stray hairs marred the vast, smooth plane. Teresa oversaw the effort, her sharp eyes catching any oversight. “There, Donna, a hair near the temple,” she directed, pointing to a nearly invisible speck. The plucking was swift, each tug a minor sting that Isabelle bore with a smile, her earlier dread replaced by a sense of camaraderie with her aunts.
The atmosphere was festive, the aunts’ laughter mingling with Isabelle’s own. “This is nothing like last time,” she said, sipping her wine between plucks. “I feel like we’re sculpting a statue!” Lisa grinned, her tweezers poised. “You are a statue, cara—a Venus for Milan!” The task was done in under an hour, leaving Isabelle’s face as flawless as before, the faint redness from the plucking fading quickly under a dab of bald’s eyesalve. The aunts stepped back, admiring their work, their voices a chorus of approval. “She’s perfect,” Teresa declared, her hand resting on Isabelle’s shoulder. “No man will resist her now.”
The following week, Milan prepared for one of its grandest events: a society ball hosted at the Visconti court, a glittering affair where the city’s nobility vied for favor and alliances. Isabelle, once a wallflower at such gatherings, now stood at the center of her chamber, her heart racing with anticipation. The mirror before her, the same re-silvered family heirloom, reflected a woman transformed. She was determined to ensure her plucking remained perfect, and that morning, she had taken the tweezers from the solar’s drawer, meticulously checking her brow ridge and forehead for any errant hairs. Her fingers, now practiced, plucked a few faint sprouts with precision, each tug a small act of devotion to her new self. Satisfied, she applied a thin layer of rosewater to soothe the skin, leaving her forehead and brows gleaming like polished marble.
Her maids dressed her with care, lacing her into a gown of deep emerald velvet, its bodice embroidered with gold thread that caught the candlelight. The neckline was modest but revealing enough to hint at her elegance, and the sleeves trailed in delicate folds, accentuating her graceful movements. Her hair, the rich chestnut curls that began high on her scalp, was dressed with artistry. The maids wove it into an intricate crown of braids, adorned with pearl pins and a single emerald that matched her gown. The high hairline framed her vast forehead, making it the focal point of her appearance, a bold statement of fashion that no other lady could rival. Isabelle studied herself in the mirror, her bald brows and expansive forehead no longer shocking but captivating, a testament to her transformation. She felt a surge of power, a certainty that tonight, she would command the room.
At the Visconti palace, the ball was a spectacle of opulence. Chandeliers of Murano glass cast a golden glow over the marble hall, where nobles in silks and velvets danced to the strains of lutes and viols. Isabelle entered on her father’s arm, her head held high, her emerald gown shimmering. The moment she stepped into the crowd, a ripple of attention followed. Heads turned, whispers spread, and eyes—particularly those of men—locked onto her. Her beauty was magnetic, her bald brows and vast forehead a provocative departure from convention. Without kohl to soften the effect, her bare brow ridge was a daring choice, drawing gasps and admiration in equal measure. Her forehead, stretching into her crown, gleamed under the chandelier light, a beacon of allure that seemed to pull every gaze toward her.
The men of Milan were like hounds scenting a prize, their decorum barely masking their eagerness. Young lords, seasoned merchants, and even grizzled condottieri vied for her attention, each pressing forward with compliments and offers of a dance. “Signorina Bellini, your beauty is divine,” one declared, his eyes lingering on her forehead. “A vision, like a saint come to life,” another murmured, bowing low. Isabelle smiled, her confidence growing with each adoring word, her movements graceful as she navigated the throng. She danced with one suitor after another, their hands warm on hers, their gazes intense, as if they could not bear to look away. The women of the court, some envious, others intrigued, whispered behind their fans, noting how Isabelle’s bold appearance had turned her from an old maid into the night’s unrivaled star.
But it was the Duke of Milan, Filippo Maria Visconti himself, who claimed her. A man in his late twenties, shrewd and powerful, he cut through the crowd with an air of authority, his dark eyes fixed on Isabelle. His presence silenced the other suitors, who stepped back, their hopes dashed. “Signorina Bellini,” he said, his voice low and commanding, “you are the jewel of this evening. Will you honor me with a dance?” Isabelle curtsied, her heart pounding, and took his hand. As they moved through the pavane, his gaze never left her face, his fingers tightening slightly on hers. “Your beauty is unlike any other,” he murmured, his eyes tracing her bald brows and vast forehead. “It speaks of courage and elegance—a rare combination.”
The dance became a courtship, each step a negotiation. By the evening’s end, the Duke had spoken with Isabelle’s father, and a betrothal was secured. The announcement sent a shockwave through the hall, envy and awe mingling in the air. Isabelle, once the overlooked spinster, was to be a duchess, her transformation the key to her triumph. As she left the ball, her arm linked with her father’s, she felt the weight of her new future, a life of power and prestige that her beauty had won.
Isabelle remained smooth for the rest of her life, her brow ridge and forehead a testament to her discipline. She took her mother’s advice to heart, plucking diligently with the Venetian tweezers, catching every new hair before it could mar her perfection. Over the years, she pushed her hairline even higher, extending the expanse of her forehead to an almost mythical breadth, a feature that became her signature at the Visconti court. The hairs, as Teresa had predicted, eventually surrendered, the follicles weakened by decades of relentless plucking. By her fortieth year, Isabelle’s forehead and brow ridge were eternally smooth, a flawless plane that required no further effort, a monument to her transformation.
As Duchess of Milan, Isabelle was celebrated not only for her beauty but for her wit and grace, her bold appearance a symbol of her strength. The aunts’ plucking party became a cherished family legend, recounted with laughter at every Bellini gathering. Isabelle, looking back, would smile at the memory of that first painful session, grateful for the pain that had forged her into a woman no man could resist.
