Bouffant Shave
In the year 1993, Erin was a woman out of time. She adored the bold, swinging style of the early 1960s—vibrant shift dresses, kitten heels, and pastel cardigans that hugged her frame just so. Every Saturday, she’d sit under the buzzing fluorescent lights of Wilma’s Beauty Parlor, her head tilted back as Wilma teased her chestnut locks into a towering bouffant, a perfect dome of retro glamour. The higher the hair, the closer to heaven, Erin always thought with a smirk, catching her reflection in the mirror. She’d leave the salon feeling like a mod queen, ready to strut through the drab modernity of the ‘90s like it was her own personal runway.
But there was one piece of her aesthetic puzzle that didn’t quite fit the ‘60s mold, a secret obsession that tugged at her from an even earlier era: the ultra-thin, arched eyebrows of the 1930s silver screen sirens. Jean Harlow, with her platinum waves and razor-sharp brows, and Marlene Dietrich, all sultry mystery with those impossibly perfect arcs—those were the women who haunted Erin’s dreams. She’d sit for hours in front of her old black-and-white TV, a VHS tape whirring, watching their faces flicker across the screen. The way their eyebrows framed their eyes, so delicate yet so commanding, wasn’t just beauty—it was power. All the natural hair plucked away, replaced by a thin, painted line of pure artifice. It was unnatural, yes, but to Erin, it was the pinnacle of femininity.
She’d stare at her own reflection sometimes, her full, ‘90s brows mocking her with their bushy reality. She’d tweeze them a little, thin them out, but it was never enough. She wanted them gone—every last hair eradicated, swept away like dust from a film reel, leaving a blank canvas for something exquisite. The thought of it, those bare arches under her freshly teased bouffant, sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t just vanity; it was something deeper, a thrill that curled in her stomach and quickened her breath. She imagined herself transformed, a hybrid of decades, her ‘60s hair crowning a face straight out of a ‘30s film still. The idea left her dizzy, her cheeks flushed with a heat she couldn’t quite name.
One rainy Tuesday, sprawled across her thrift-store velvet sofa, Erin made up her mind. She’d been flipping through a dog-eared Photoplay magazine from 1935, tracing Jean Harlow’s penciled brows with her fingertip, when the realization hit her like a bolt of Technicolor lightning. You know what? I can. She didn’t have to just dream about it anymore. Wilma—sweet, chain-smoking Wilma with her steady hands and her knack for turning Erin’s hair into a masterpiece—could do it. She could make it real.
Heart pounding, Erin scrambled for the phone, her chipped red nails fumbling over the rotary dial. The line crackled as it rang, and then Wilma’s gravelly voice came through. “Wilma’s Beauty Parlor, what’s it today, hon?”
“Wilma, it’s Erin,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement. “Saturday—when I come in for my hair—I want you to do something else for me.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that, doll? Another trim on the ends?”
“No, no, not my hair. Well, yes, the bouffant, of course, but—my eyebrows. I want them gone. All of them. Plucked clean off. And then I want you to paint them on, thin and arched, like—like Jean Harlow. Like the ‘30s stars.”
There was a pause, a faint puff of cigarette smoke audible through the receiver as Wilma processed this. Then she chuckled, low and warm. “Well, damn, Erin, you don’t mess around, do ya? You sure about this? It’s a hell of a change.”
“I’ve never been surer,” Erin said, gripping the phone tighter. “I’ve wanted it forever. Please, Wilma. Make me look like them.”
“Alright, alright,” Wilma relented, amusement lacing her tone. “Saturday it is. Bring your nerve, ‘cause once they’re gone, they’re gone. I’ll have my tweezers and my liner ready.”
Erin hung up, her pulse racing. She could already see it: Saturday morning, the sharp sting of the tweezers, the slow reveal of bare skin where her brows once were, and then Wilma’s careful hand sketching those perfect, impossible lines. She’d walk out of that parlor a vision—her bouffant soaring, her new eyebrows a bold slash of vintage allure. For the first time, she’d feel whole, a living collage of the eras she loved most. And as she lay back on the sofa, the rain tapping against the window, Erin smiled to herself, already counting the hours until Saturday.
Saturday dawned bright and crisp, the kind of morning that felt like a spotlight waiting to shine on Erin’s transformation. She woke early, her stomach fluttering with a mix of nerves and exhilaration. Standing before her chipped bathroom mirror, she ran her fingers over her natural eyebrows one last time. They were thick and dark, a stark contrast to the vision in her mind. She traced their curves, feeling the soft bristles under her fingertips, and whispered a silent goodbye. These were the brows she’d been born with, but they weren’t her. Not anymore. Today, they’d be swept away, replaced by something extraordinary. The thought made her shiver, a spark igniting deep within her.
At Wilma’s Beauty Parlor, the air was thick with the scent of hairspray and peroxide, a familiar perfume that Erin had come to love. The salon was a time capsule itself—faded pink walls adorned with curling posters of ‘60s starlets, a row of avocado-green dryers humming in the corner, and a cracked linoleum floor that squeaked underfoot. Wilma, her wiry frame draped in a floral smock, greeted Erin with a crooked grin and a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. “Mornin’, hon. Ready to lose those caterpillars and join the big leagues?”
Erin laughed, her nerves bubbling up as she settled into the vinyl chair. “More than ready. Let’s do the hair first, though—give me that bouffant to frame it all.”
Wilma nodded, stubbing out her cigarette in a chipped ashtray. She set to work, sectioning Erin’s hair with deft fingers, wrapping each strand around oversized curlers. The process was methodical, almost meditative—clips snapping into place, the cool metal of the rollers pressing against her scalp. Erin watched in the mirror as her hair began to take shape, a towering promise of volume. The anticipation built with every curler, her mind drifting to what came next. She could hardly sit still, her legs crossing and uncrossing beneath the cape.
Once the last curler was secured, Wilma wheeled over a cart cluttered with tools—tweezers glinting under the fluorescent lights, a pot of wax warming on a hotplate, and a small tin of black eyebrow pencil sharpened to a fine point. “Alright, doll,” Wilma said, pulling up a stool. “Hair’s gotta set, so let’s get to those brows. You still sure?”
Erin’s breath caught, her eyes locking onto Wilma’s. “Yes. Do it.”
Wilma smirked, picking up the tweezers. “Here we go, then. Hold still—and don’t flinch.”
The first pluck was a sharp, electric jolt, a single hair yanked free from its root. Erin gasped, her fingers curling around the armrests. It wasn’t just pain—it was something else, something alive and thrilling. Another pluck, then another, each one stripping away a piece of her old self. She watched in the mirror as her left brow began to thin, the natural line dissolving under Wilma’s steady hand. Her skin tingled, flushed with heat, and a strange, intoxicating warmth spread through her chest, sinking lower. Each hair removed felt like a release, a step closer to the fantasy she’d cradled for so long.
Wilma worked with precision, her cigarette-roughened voice muttering encouragements. “Look at that, hon—bare as a baby’s ass already. You’re gonna be a knockout.” The tweezers clicked rhythmically, a staccato beat to Erin’s rising pulse. She bit her lip, her breath shallow, as the sensation grew sharper, more insistent. The right brow followed, hair after hair plucked away until nothing remained but smooth, naked skin. Erin’s reflection stared back at her, alien and exhilarating—her eyes suddenly huge, her face transformed.
Wilma set the tweezers down and reached for the wax, just to catch any stragglers. The warm strip pressed against Erin’s skin, then ripped away in a quick, searing motion. Erin’s head tipped back, a soft moan escaping her lips before she could stop it. The sting was delicious, a final cleansing that left her trembling with a heady mix of pain and pleasure. She felt exposed, raw, and utterly alive.
“Now for the fun part,” Wilma said, oblivious to Erin’s inner storm. She dipped the pencil into the tin, sketching the first thin, arched line above Erin’s left eye. The strokes were deliberate, a perfect crescent moon rising from nothing. Erin watched, mesmerized, as the second brow took shape—high, elegant, and impossibly artificial. The black pigment gleamed under the lights, a stark contrast to her pale skin. It was Jean Harlow, Marlene Dietrich, and Erin all at once—a collision of dreams made real.
Wilma stepped back, hands on her hips. “Well, damn. You’re a vision, alright. Hair’s next—let’s get those curlers out.”
Erin barely heard her, too lost in the mirror. Her bare scalp still buzzed where the hairs had been, her new brows a bold slash of femininity. The arousal lingered, a quiet hum beneath her skin, as she waited for the bouffant to crown her transformation. She was no longer just Erin—she was something timeless, something electric, and she couldn’t wait to see the full picture.
Erin floated out of Wilma’s Beauty Parlor like she was walking on a cloud, her freshly teased bouffant bouncing with every step and her new, painted eyebrows gleaming like twin arcs of perfection. The world seemed brighter, sharper, as if it had adjusted itself to match her vision. She caught her reflection in every shop window along the street—her towering hair, her bare browline now adorned with those thin, elegant lines—and a grin spread across her face each time. Strangers glanced her way, some with curiosity, others with admiration, and Erin soaked it all in. She felt untouchable, a living piece of art sculpted from her deepest desires.
The high lasted all weekend. She’d stand before her bedroom mirror for hours, tilting her head this way and that, marveling at how the stark black pencil lines framed her eyes. She’d redraw them each morning with a steady hand, experimenting with the curve, the angle, the thickness—though never too thick. They were her signature now, a daily ritual that felt less like a chore and more like a sacred act of self-creation. She was Jean Harlow one day, Marlene Dietrich the next, and always, undeniably, Erin.
But the bubble burst on Monday afternoon when her mother dropped by unannounced. The doorbell chimed, and Erin opened it with a flourish, still riding the thrill of her transformation. Her mother, a stout woman with sensible shoes and a perm that hadn’t changed since 1982, stepped inside, took one look at Erin, and froze. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, zeroing in on those artificial brows like a hawk spotting prey.
“Erin Marie, what in God’s name have you done to your face?” Her voice was a mix of shock and horror, her hands flying to her hips. “Those—those things on your forehead! They’re fake! You look like some kind of… of cartoon character!”
Erin’s smile faltered, but only for a moment. She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin to show off her new look. “They’re not ‘things,’ Mom. They’re my eyebrows. I had Wilma pluck them all off and draw these on. Aren’t they fabulous?”
“Fabulous?” Her mother’s voice climbed an octave. “You’ve gone and mutilated yourself! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Your grandmother—Lord rest her soul—did the same damn thing back in the ‘40s. Plucked every last hair right out, chasing some Hollywood fad, and spent the rest of her life drawing them on every single day. Every. Single. Day, Erin! She’d smudge them in the rain, sweat them off in the summer, and don’t get me started on the time she fell asleep with them half-drawn. Looked like a lopsided clown at breakfast!”
Erin listened, her mother’s words washing over her like background noise. She pictured her grandmother, a stern woman with a penchant for floral dresses, penciling on her brows with the same care Erin now took. Far from a cautionary tale, it sounded… inspiring. A legacy, even. She crossed her arms, her resolve hardening.
“I don’t care, Mom,” she said, her tone firm. “I want to draw them on. I love my drawn-on eyebrows. They’re mine—exactly how I’ve always dreamed they’d be. I’m going back to Wilma every Saturday to make sure they stay gone. If I see even one little hair trying to grow back, I’ll pluck it out myself until they give up for good. I want bald brows for life, and I’ll draw them on every day until I die.”
Her mother stared at her, mouth agape, as if Erin had just declared she was joining a circus. “You’re serious,” she said finally, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “You’re actually serious about this.”
“Dead serious,” Erin shot back, a spark of defiance in her eyes. “This is me now. It’s not a phase, it’s not a mistake—it’s who I am.”
Her mother sighed, a long, weary sound, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well, I can’t stop you. But don’t come crying to me when you’re 80 and your hands shake too much to draw a straight line. You’re as stubborn as your grandmother ever was.”
“Maybe I am,” Erin said with a smirk, “and I’m proud of it.”
Her mother shook her head and shuffled toward the door, muttering something about “kids these days” under her breath. When the door clicked shut, Erin turned back to her mirror, picking up her eyebrow pencil. She traced the left arc again, slow and deliberate, her lips curving into a smile. Her mother’s warnings didn’t scare her—they fueled her. This was her rebellion, her joy, her art. And she’d keep it alive, one perfect stroke at a time, for as long as she had breath in her body.
The next day, Erin walked into her office at the small advertising firm with her head held high, her bouffant still impeccable from Saturday’s appointment at Wilma’s. Her bald brows, freshly drawn that morning into sharp, high-arched crescents, gleamed under the fluorescent lights. She’d paired her look with a pastel pink shift dress, straight out of 1963, and her pearl necklace—an outfit that screamed vintage glamour. As she strode past the cubicles, she felt the weight of every stare, her heart pounding with a mix of pride and defiance. She was ready for whatever reactions came her way.
The office was a buzz of chatter as the other women gathered around the coffee machine, their Monday morning ritual of gossip and caffeine in full swing. The moment Erin stepped into the break room, the chatter died down, replaced by a collective gasp. All eyes were on her, or more specifically, on the bare expanse where her eyebrows used to be.
“Oh my God, Erin!” squealed Debbie, a bubbly blonde who handled the firm’s social media accounts. She clapped her hands together, her eyes wide with delight. “You look like a movie star! Like… like one of those old Hollywood gals! What did you do?”
Erin smiled, smoothing the hem of her dress. “I had Wilma at the beauty parlor pluck them all off. Then she drew these on. They’re inspired by Jean Harlow—aren’t they fabulous?”
“They’re incredible!” Debbie gushed, stepping closer to inspect the pencil-thin lines. “So dramatic! I love how high they are—it’s like they’re reaching for the stars.”
Not everyone shared Debbie’s enthusiasm. Margaret, the office manager with a penchant for sensible cardigans and a no-nonsense attitude, looked like she’d just swallowed a lemon. She adjusted her glasses, her lips pursing as she took in Erin’s new look. “Erin, you’ve gone and made yourself look like a mannequin,” she said, her tone dripping with disapproval. “Eyebrows are there for a reason. What’s next, shaving your head? You look… unnatural.”
Erin’s smile didn’t waver. She’d heard worse from her mother the day before, and she wasn’t about to let Margaret’s words dim her shine. “I like unnatural,” she replied coolly. “It’s art, Margaret. And it’s me.”
The other women in the break room were a mixed bag. Linda, a quiet copywriter with a love for floral skirts, seemed intrigued but hesitant, her fingers brushing her own full brows as if imagining them gone. “It’s… bold,” she said carefully. “I don’t know if I could pull it off, but it suits you, Erin.”
Then there was Carol, the receptionist, who let out a snort that echoed through the room. “You look like you’re stuck in a time warp,” she said, shaking her head. “What’s wrong with normal eyebrows? This is the ‘90s, not the ‘30s. You’re gonna regret this when you’re old and can’t draw a straight line.”
But Debbie wasn’t having it. She turned to Carol, her hands on her hips. “Oh, come on, Carol, don’t be such a wet blanket! I think it’s amazing. In fact…” She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’m gonna do it too. I’ve always wanted to try something daring. Erin, can I come with you to Wilma’s next Saturday?”
Erin’s heart swelled with pride. “Of course! Wilma will be thrilled. She loves a challenge.”
By lunchtime, the office was divided into two camps: those who loved Erin’s new look and those who thought she’d lost her mind. But Debbie’s enthusiasm was contagious. During their break, she cornered Linda in the hallway, convincing her to join the Saturday appointment. “Come on, Linda, live a little!” Debbie said, her voice bubbling with excitement. “We’ll all look like silver screen goddesses. It’ll be fun!”
Linda hesitated, but the idea of a dramatic change started to take root. “Okay,” she said finally, a shy smile breaking through. “Let’s do it. But I want mine even higher than Erin’s—really arched, like a perfect half-moon.”
The rest of the week saw a shift in the office dynamic. What started as a mix of admiration and scorn began to tilt toward curiosity. Even Carol, who’d been the loudest critic, started to waver. She caught herself staring at Erin’s brows during a team meeting, her fingers absentmindedly tracing her own. By Thursday, she pulled Erin aside in the copy room. “Alright, fine,” she muttered, her cheeks red. “I’m in. But don’t tell Margaret—she’ll have a fit.”
Saturday rolled around, and Wilma’s Beauty Parlor was packed with Erin and her converts. Debbie, Linda, and Carol sat in a row, their hair in curlers as Wilma worked her magic. The tweezers flashed, hair by hair, until each woman’s brows were completely gone. Wilma drew on their new arches with a steady hand, each set more dramatic than the last. Debbie’s were sharp and angular, Linda’s soared into perfect crescents, and Carol, despite her initial reluctance, went for the highest arch of all—a bold, skyward sweep that made her eyes pop.
Back at the office the following Monday, the transformation was undeniable. The four women strutted in, their bald brows now a badge of honor, each set of drawn-on arches more extreme than the last. Margaret nearly dropped her coffee mug, her face a mask of horror, but the rest of the office couldn’t stop staring. The trend took on a life of its own, turning into a competition of sorts. Who could have the highest arch? The thinnest line? The most dramatic curve?
Even Margaret, after weeks of grumbling, caved under the pressure. One Monday, she showed up with her own brows gone, replaced by a set of pencil-thin lines that arched so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” she muttered, though the glint in her eye suggested she was secretly enjoying the attention.
Erin watched it all unfold with a quiet satisfaction. She’d started a revolution, a browless rebellion that turned the office into a gallery of vintage-inspired glamour. Every Saturday, the group piled into Wilma’s, their appointments a ritual of plucking and drawing, each woman determined to outdo the others. And Erin, with her perfect Jean Harlow-inspired arcs, remained the queen of them all, her dream of bald brows for life now a shared obsession.
Loved the story, are you going to write a part two?