Bouffant Shave
The engagement ring still felt new on Lilly’s finger as she stood in her bedroom a week later, the late August heat of 1973 seeping through the open window. John had made it clear: he didn’t just want her hair in that towering, early ‘60s bouffant—he wanted all of her to step out of his dream of 1963. Makeup, clothes, the whole package. And Lilly, caught up in the thrill of his vision and her own eager curiosity, dove in headfirst. She was determined to become his perfect ‘60s doll wife, a living echo of the elegance he craved.
She started with the clothes. Digging through thrift stores and her mother’s old cedar chest, Lilly unearthed treasures: a pale pink shift dress with a nipped waist, a navy A-line skirt that hit just above the knee, and a cream blouse with a Peter Pan collar. She found a pair of short white gloves and a pillbox hat, its tiny veil dotted with faded silk flowers. John’s eyes lit up when she modeled them for him that first night, twirling in the living room. “That’s it,” he’d said, voice husky. “Exactly it. Like you walked out of a magazine.”
Next came the makeup. Lilly sat at her vanity, studying old photos of Audrey Hepburn and Jackie Kennedy she’d taped to the mirror. She practiced until her hands stopped shaking—sweeping on thick black eyeliner with a sharp wing, curling her lashes until they fanned out like a starlet’s, and dusting her lids with a soft blue shadow. She dabbed on creamy coral lipstick, blotting it just so, and powdered her face to a matte, porcelain finish. When John saw her, he couldn’t stop staring, his fingers brushing her cheek as if she might vanish. “Perfect,” he murmured. “My early ‘60s queen.”
The hair, of course, was non-negotiable. Every Saturday, John drove her to Bertha’s, where the ritual unfolded: the buzz of clippers shaving her nape smooth, the comb teasing her chestnut strands into a glossy bubble bouffant, and a haze of hairspray locking it all in place. Lilly loved the weight of it, the way it made her feel taller, bolder—like she was stepping into a role she’d been born to play.
But there was one snag. Lilly’s eyebrows. The early ‘60s favored thick, arched brows, bold and groomed, like Liz Taylor’s. By 1973, the trend had shifted—brows were thinner, plucked to a delicate line, a stark contrast to the fuller frames of a decade earlier. Lilly couldn’t help but notice it every time she flipped through a current magazine or saw Sue’s pencil-thin arcs at the diner. She wanted them—badly. They’d be her one modern touch, a little rebellion against John’s retro rulebook.
One evening, as they sat on the porch swing, Lilly worked up the nerve. She turned to John, her bouffant gleaming under the dusk light, and clasped her hands. “John, I love being your ‘60s girl—every bit of it. The hair, the dresses, the makeup. But can I please have modern brows? The thin ones everyone’s got now? They’re so sleek, and I’d still keep everything else just how you like it.”
John leaned back, crossing his arms, his brow furrowing like she’d asked to dye her hair green. “Modern brows?” he said, skeptical. “Those skinny little things? Don’t match the rest of it.”
“Please,” she pressed, her voice soft but firm. “Just this one thing. I’ll beg if I have to.”
He studied her for a long moment, then cracked a slow smile. “Alright, I’ll give you that. But here’s why it works—those thin brows in ‘73? They’re really like 1933 all over again. Shaved off, drawn on, wispy and arched—high glamour, like the old Hollywood dames. That’s a peak I can live with. Better than the ‘60s bushy ones, if I’m honest.” He pulled the phone from his pocket. “I’ll call Bertha. Tell her to take ‘em off tomorrow—wax ‘em clean, no half-measures. She’ll draw ‘em on ultra-thin while she’s doing your bouffant and nape shave.”
Lilly clapped her hands, practically bouncing. “Oh, John, you’re the best! Modern brows—well, 1933 modern. I’m tickled pink!”
The next day, John drove her to Bertha’s as promised, the truck’s engine humming with their usual Saturday rhythm. Bertha greeted them with her usual gum snap, eyeing Lilly’s face. “John called,” she said, smirking. “Hair’s the same—big ‘60s bubble, nape shaved smooth. But brows? We’re waxing ‘em off and penciling in something thin and fancy. His orders.”
Lilly settled into the chair, her heart racing as Bertha heated the wax. The first rip stung, then the second, until her brows were gone—just smooth skin where they’d been. Bertha worked fast, clipping the nape clean and teasing the bouffant to its towering peak, the air thick with hairspray. Then she leaned in with a pencil, sketching delicate, arched lines where Lilly’s brows once sat—ultra-thin, wispy, like a silver-screen starlet from forty years back. When she handed Lilly the mirror, the transformation was complete: a ‘60s doll from the neck up, except for those sleek, 1933-inspired brows.
John stood when she emerged, his grin wide and approving. “Now that’s my girl,” he said, tipping her chin to admire the full effect. “Early ‘60s everywhere else, but those brows? Pure vintage glamour. You’re a knockout.”
Lilly beamed, brushing a gloved hand along her hat’s veil. “Your ‘60s doll wife, with a little 1933 twist. Happy?”
“More than you know,” he said, pulling her close—careful, as always, not to muss the hair.
As they drove home, Lilly caught her reflection in the side mirror: bouffant high, makeup bold, dress crisp, and those razor-thin brows framing it all. She’d given herself to John’s vision, but those brows? They were her mark, a whisper of her own voice in the symphony of his retro dreams.
By 1976, John’s moving company had grown into a small empire, its trucks a common sight rumbling through town and beyond. Success had come fast, and John credited much of it to Lilly—his loving, submissive wife whose radiant presence steadied him. With her at his side, work life felt lighter, his focus sharper. The money poured in, and their world expanded: maids swept through the house, a cook handled meals, and Lilly was freed from the usual housewife grind. She’d wander the grocery store sometimes, basket in hand, just to feel useful, but her real job—her calling—was keeping herself the perfect early ‘60s bouffant wife John adored.
Flush with cash, John upped the ante. Lilly’s Saturday trips to Bertha’s doubled to twice a week, then crept to three, sometimes four. At 21, she logged more time under curlers, dryers, and teasing combs than many of Bertha’s regulars—women twice her age who’d been loyal for decades. The salon became her second home, the hum of dryers her lullaby. Bertha, gruff but proud, took a shine to Lilly’s dedication. As a reward, she declared the salon’s best dryer—top-of-the-line, with a wide pink hood—Lilly’s personal throne. She had “Lilly’s” scripted in gold cursive across the dome, a gleaming badge of honor for all to see. Lilly beamed every time she slid under it, her bouffant taking shape while the other women nodded in quiet awe.
Life glittered like the diamond on her finger—until February 1976, when the Winter Olympics flickered onto their TV screen. Dorothy Hamill skated into view, her gold-medal grace mesmerizing, her short wedge-cut bob swinging with every turn. Lilly, perched on the couch in her shift dress, froze. That sleek, modern bob—so different from her towering bubble—stirred something in her. The next day at Bertha’s, as the clippers buzzed her nape, she blurted it out: “Bertha, how would I look with a wedge bob like Dorothy Hamill’s?”
The salon went silent. Bertha’s comb clattered to the counter. She turned, her eyes narrowing into an angry glare that could’ve melted steel. “What did you just say?” she snapped, her voice low and dangerous. Before Lilly could backtrack, Bertha stormed to the sink, snatched a bar of Dove soap, and marched back. “Open your mouth,” she commanded, grabbing Lilly’s jaw and yanking it down. She thrust the bar in, barking, “Bite hard!”
Lilly’s eyes widened as the creamy soap hit her tongue, bitter and slick, flooding her mouth with a nauseating taste. She gagged, but Bertha’s hand cracked across her cheek—sharp, stinging, a reprimand that echoed through the room. “Keep it in,” Bertha ordered, towering over her. “How dare you? After all John’s done—building this life, paying for your beauty, making you his ‘60s dream—and you think about changing your hair on your own? Ungrateful girl.”
Tears welled in Lilly’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she bit into the soap, her jaw trembling. Drool pooled at the corners of her mouth, the taste unbearable, but she didn’t dare spit it out. Bertha softened, just a fraction, and pulled her into a stiff hug. “There, there,” she said, patting Lilly’s back. “Let’s get past this. I’m setting the timer for four minutes. Think about John while you sit there.”
Four minutes stretched into an eternity. Lilly’s mouth watered, her throat convulsing as she fought not to swallow, tears mixing with the drool. When the timer dinged, Bertha pried the bar from Lilly’s teeth—deep grooves marking where she’d bitten—and waved her off. “Go rinse.”
Lilly stumbled to the sink, spitting and scrubbing her tongue with water until the taste faded to a dull memory. She returned, subdued, and slid under “Lilly’s” dryer, the heat a quiet penance as her bouffant set. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bertha on the phone, her voice hushed but urgent. Lilly couldn’t hear the words, couldn’t see John on the other end, his tone calm but firm as he laid out her punishment.
“Shave her nape higher,” he told Bertha. “Up to the crown this time—not just the base. And from now on, no more clippers. Wax it regular—keep it smooth, permanent-like. She needs to feel it, Bertha. That high, bare nape’s hers for good now.”
Back in the chair, Lilly didn’t flinch as Bertha tilted her head forward. The clippers buzzed higher than ever, shearing the hair up to the crown, leaving a wide swath of skin exposed. Then came the wax—hot, then sharp as Bertha ripped it away, stripping the stubble to nothing. She teased the remaining hair into its usual bubble, but the feel was different now: lighter, cooler, the bald stretch a constant reminder against her neck. When Bertha handed her the mirror, Lilly’s breath caught. The bouffant soared, but that high, waxed nape gleamed stark and vulnerable, a mark of John’s will etched into her.
John picked her up that evening, his eyes tracing the new line of her nape with quiet satisfaction. “You look stunning,” he said, brushing a finger along the smooth skin. “This is you now, Lilly. My ‘60s doll, locked in proper.”
She nodded, her voice soft. “I’m sorry, John. I won’t ask again.”
He smiled, pulling her close—careful of the hair, as always. “Good girl. We’ve got a life to live, you and me.”
Under the dryer’s hum that week, Lilly stared at her name in gold cursive, the taste of soap a faint ghost on her tongue. The wedge bob faded from her mind, replaced by the weight of her promise—and the bare, waxed crown she’d carry forever.
