Bouffant Shave
In the sleepy town of Elmwood, where the jukebox at Duffy’s Diner once played Elvis and the air smelled of hairspray and pie, Lillian’s Beauty Shop reigned supreme. Under its pastel-pink awning, Lillian DuPont—sharp-cheeked, platinum-bobbed, and ever-smiling—crafted bouffants that turned housewives into queens. By 1963, she’d hatched a plan to keep her clients forever. She shaved their napes, waxed them bald with free treatments, and locked their crowns in tight perms. Wash-and-wear hair became impossible; they needed her to look whole. By Christmas, Elmwood’s women were hers, their bald napes and teased towers a lifelong bond.
The ‘60s rolled into the ‘70s—bell-bottoms replaced miniskirts, and Fleetwood Mac drowned out Elvis. Lillian’s shop stayed a time capsule, bouffants unyielding. Her ledger of names grew thick. But in 1975, change flickered. Betty Harper, Marjorie the mayor’s wife, and Donna Tate talked of new styles—feathered locks, bobs, natural curls. “Something simpler,” Betty sighed, eyeing a magazine. Lillian, all charm, stalled them. “I’ll bring pictures next month. We’ll plan.” They trusted her.
She returned with photos, but her real plan struck. “A clean slate,” she cooed, shaving their crowns ear tip to ear tip, waxing the wide strips bald. Under dryers, half their heads gleamed bare, perms atop. No new style could work—they stayed bouffanted, resigned. Soon, they preached the “Lillian look,” luring others to the clippers.
That same year, one gal broke ranks. Sally Perkins, a quiet clerk at the five-and-dime, had been a regular since ‘68. Her nape was long bald, her perm a tight cap. But in August 1975, tired of the routine, she skipped Lillian’s. “I’ll wash it myself,” she thought, scrubbing her curls at home. The perm frizzed into a fuzzy halo, stark against the wide, bald rear nape—a shiny expanse from ear to ear, legacy of years of waxing. She didn’t realize the horror until she stepped out.
At the grocery, heads turned. Kids giggled, pointing at the absurdity: a puffy cloud of curls atop a barren half-scalp. Mrs. Clara Henshaw clucked, “Oh, Sally, what happened?” By noon, the town buzzed—Sally Perkins, the fuzzy-capped fool. Mortified, she hid indoors, tears streaking her freckled cheeks. The mirror mocked her: no teasing could hide that bald swath. Without Lillian’s hands, she was a freak.
The next day, Sally bolted to Lillian’s chair, hat pulled low. “Fix me,” she begged, voice trembling. Lillian’s smile was velvet steel. “Of course, darling. You just needed a reminder.” The clippers buzzed, trimming the frizz; the comb teased; the spray set. Her bouffant rose again, majestic, the bald nape tucked beneath. Sally exhaled, whole once more. “I’ll never miss again,” she vowed. Lillian patted her shoulder, adding her name to the ledger’s latest page.
By late 1975, the shop thrived. Sally’s tale spread—half warning, half lure. Betty, Marjorie, and Donna, half-bald themselves, nudged others aboard. The neon sign glowed, and inside, women laughed, their heads a mix of towers and secrets. Lillian ruled, scissors glinting. They thought they chased beauty. They didn’t see the trap—shaved, waxed, and permed—binding them to her forever.
