Bouffant Shave
By 1978, the sting of the soap bar incident had faded into a distant blur for Lilly. Two years had smoothed over the memory, and Bertha’s gruff demeanor softened into a brisk friendliness—though Lilly knew the truth: she wasn’t Bertha’s customer. She was the canvas, the living doll John sculpted through Bertha’s hands. He paid the bills, called the shots, and Lilly’s role was to sit still and shine. Her routine rolled on like clockwork: three, sometimes four, visits a week to Bertha’s, where the wax stripped her nape to the crown, the comb teased her bouffant sky-high, and the hairspray sealed her as John’s ‘60s vision. The gold cursive “Lilly’s” on her dryer gleamed as a quiet badge of her place in this world.
Life hummed along, predictable and polished, until one sticky afternoon at the grocery store. Lilly, in a pale blue shift dress and pillbox hat, was scanning the canned goods aisle when a burst of laughter snapped her out of her daze. She turned to see three familiar faces—Kelly, Sue, and Jan, her old high school crew—pushing a cart piled with chips and soda. Their hair bounced in frizzy, carefree perms, the latest rage, and their cutoff shorts and tie-dye tops screamed 1978 freedom. They spotted her and froze, eyes wide.
“Lilly?” Kelly said, grinning. “Wow, you’ve changed. Talk about a time warp! You look like you stepped out of my mom’s old photo album.”
Sue laughed, nudging Jan. “Seriously, that hair—it’s like Jackie O on steroids. What’s your secret?”
Lilly touched her bouffant, a reflex, and smiled faintly. “Just how John likes it. Early ‘60s all the way.”
The girls exchanged glances, then Kelly perked up. “Hey, we’re throwing a party tonight at my place—girls’ night out. Nothing fancy, just music, drinks, dancing. Come by, like old times! Around 10 p.m.?”
Lilly’s heart gave a little tug, a flicker of the girl she’d been at 18, but she shook her head. “I wish I could, but my husband wants me in bed by 9.”
“Nine?” Jan blinked, incredulous. “Nine p.m.?”
“Yes,” Lilly said, her voice steady, practiced. “He wants me well-rested and available if he gets the urge.” John had always encouraged her to share the details—boldly, unashamed—like it was a point of pride.
“No way,” Sue said, jaw dropping. “That’s… strict.”
“It gets stricter,” Lilly continued, almost rote, as if reciting a script. “I have to be in my bath by 8 p.m.—a full soak, shave, and I give myself an enema.” She paused, watching their faces shift from surprise to shock. “John wants me hairless from my brows down. Not just legs and underarms—my arms too, smooth as glass. My pubic mound, lips, even my butthole. All of it.”
The girls stared, speechless, the air between them thickening. Kelly finally sputtered, “An enema? For real?”
“Yes,” Lilly said, unflinching. “He wants me clean inside and out—especially if he wants me… you know, in the rear. Sodomy’s his thing sometimes.”
“Wow,” Jan breathed, clutching the cart. “Lilly, you’re living a different life. We’re out here partying it up, and you’re…”
“His doll,” Lilly finished, her tone even but her eyes distant. “It’s what he wants.”
Sue recovered first, forcing a smile. “Well, uh, call us sometime if you ever want to join the fun. You’ve got our numbers, right?”
Lilly nodded, clutching her grocery basket tighter. “Yeah. I’ll keep it in mind.”
They waved awkwardly and shuffled off, their laughter echoing down the aisle as they whispered among themselves. Lilly stood there, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, her reflection glinting in the glass of a freezer door: bouffant towering, dress crisp, skin waxed bare from brow to toe. She looked untouchable, a relic of John’s making, while her friends danced into a world she’d left behind.
That night, she followed the routine like always. At 8 p.m., the bathwater steamed as she shaved every inch—arms, legs, mound, between her cheeks—until her skin gleamed like porcelain. The enema came next, a cold, clinical task she’d mastered, her movements mechanical. By 9, she was in bed, her bouffant protected under a silk scarf, her body pristine and waiting. John came home late, the truck’s engine cutting off at 10:30. He climbed the stairs, found her awake, and smiled—that slow, possessive grin.
“Good girl,” he said, brushing a hand over her waxed nape, higher now than ever, a smooth expanse up to her crown. “Always ready for me.”
Lilly smiled back, small and automatic, the frizzy perms and party laughter fading into the hum of the life she’d chosen—or the one chosen for her.
The grocery store run-in lingered in Lilly’s mind like a song she couldn’t shake. For days after, as she moved through her polished routine, the frizzy perms and easy laughter of Kelly, Sue, and Jan flickered behind her eyes. It wasn’t envy—not exactly—but a quiet ache, a pull toward something she couldn’t name. At 23, Lilly was John’s masterpiece: bouffant soaring, body waxed bare, life sculpted to his early ‘60s fantasy. She’d given herself to it willingly, hadn’t she? That ring on her finger, the gold “Lilly’s” on her dryer—they were proof of her choice. So why did her chest feel tight when she pictured her friends dancing under disco lights, free in a way she hadn’t been since she was 18?
Her days were a rhythm of perfection. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, John’s truck delivered her to Bertha’s, where the wax stripped her nape to the crown, the comb teased her hair into its stiff bubble, and the dryer hummed her into stillness. She’d sit under “Lilly’s,” the gold lettering a crown of sorts, while Bertha penciled her ultra-thin 1933 brows and the other women chattered about soap operas and potlucks. Lilly smiled, nodded, but her thoughts drifted. She’d catch her reflection—flawless, frozen, a doll in a glass case—and wonder: Is this me? Or just what he sees?
Nights were the same. At 8 p.m., she’d sink into the bath, razor gliding over every inch—arms, legs, mound, between her cheeks—until no trace of hair dared defy John’s rule. The enema followed, a ritual she’d once blushed through but now performed with detached efficiency, her mind elsewhere. By 9, she’d be in bed, silk scarf guarding her bouffant, waiting for John’s footsteps on the stairs. When he came to her—his hands tracing her smooth skin, his breath warm against her waxed nape—she’d play her part, soft and yielding. He’d murmur, “My perfect girl,” and she’d smile, but the words echoed hollow some nights, like they belonged to someone else.
The conflict grew roots in quiet moments. Folding laundry one afternoon, the maids bustling downstairs, Lilly found an old photo tucked in a drawer—her at 16, hair long and straight, laughing with Sue by the lake. She’d been wilder then, untamed, her future a blank page. Now, that girl felt like a stranger. John had given her everything—money, security, a role to play—but at what cost? Her friends’ voices replayed: “You’re living a different life.” Different, yes, but was it hers? She loved John, loved the way he looked at her like she was art, but the weight of his rules pressed harder lately—the 9 p.m. curfew, the hairless body, the enema’s cold necessity. It was devotion, sure, but it was also a cage.
She thought about the party invite. Kelly’s number sat scribbled on a scrap of paper by the phone, tempting her. What would it be like—just one night—to slip into jeans, let her hair down (if it could even do that anymore), and laugh until dawn? To be Lilly, not John’s Lilly? The idea thrilled her, then terrified her. John would never allow it. And Bertha—God, Bertha would have her back in that chair with a bar of soap before she could blink, waxing her nape higher as punishment. Worse, she’d see that flicker of hurt in John’s eyes, the betrayal he’d never voice but she’d feel all the same.
One Wednesday, under the dryer at Bertha’s, the heat buzzing against her scalp, Lilly’s thoughts spun louder. I could call them. Just once. Say I’m sick, skip the bath, sneak out after he’s asleep. Her pulse raced at the rebellion, a spark of the old Lilly flaring up. But then she pictured John waking to an empty bed, his confusion turning to anger, the life they’d built cracking under the strain. She’d chosen this—hadn’t she?—back when she said yes to his ring and his bouffant bargain. She’d traded freedom for his love, and it had felt right then, a fair deal. Now, the scales tipped unevenly, and she couldn’t tell if she missed her old self or just the chance to find out who she might’ve been.
That night, after the bath and enema, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. John came home late, his hands finding her in the dark, his voice warm with praise. “My doll,” he said, fingers grazing her high, bare nape. She turned to him, smiling as always, but a tear slipped down her cheek, unseen in the shadows. Was this love, this surrender? Or was it a script she’d memorized too well? Lilly didn’t know anymore—and that was the hardest part of all.
The gnawing hadn’t stopped. Months after the grocery store encounter, the image of her old friends—Kelly, Sue, Jan—twirled through Lilly’s mind like a reel she couldn’t pause. Their frizzy, one-and-done perms, their laughter, their freedom—it clawed at her, a quiet itch beneath the polished surface of her life. At 23, she was still John’s ‘60s doll: the bouffant towering, the nape waxed high, the body shaved bare from brows down. It was her rhythm, her role, but the carefree ease of her friends’ 1978 lives tugged at a thread she couldn’t ignore. What would it feel like to let go, just once?
One crisp October afternoon, with John away on a week-long business trip hauling equipment across state lines, Lilly stood by the kitchen phone, her fingers tracing Kelly’s scribbled number. The house was silent, the maids off for the day, the cook prepping elsewhere. Her heart thudded as she dialed Sue instead—safer, somehow, a voice she trusted more. The line crackled, then Sue’s familiar drawl came through.
“Lilly! Hey, stranger, how’s it going?”
They traded small talk—weather, old classmates, the usual pleasantries—until Sue cut through the fluff. “So, you still rocking that monster mom bouffant? The one that looks like it could survive a tornado?”
Lilly laughed, a little stiffly, glancing at her reflection in the hall mirror: the bubble of hair, stiff and gleaming. “Yeah, it’s what John wants.”
Sue paused, then her tone softened, edged with challenge. “What about you, Lilly? What do you want? Live a little. Tomorrow, me and the girls are hitting Design3—that new salon downtown. We’re getting our perms redone, freshening up the frizz. Join us. Make a new you. Welcome to 1978, not 1963.”
Lilly’s breath caught. “I… I don’t know if I can. What time?”
“Two p.m.,” Sue said, her voice brightening. “We’d love to see you. Maybe you’ll meet us there?”
“I’ll think about it,” Lilly said, her words trailing off as she hung up. Her mind raced, a storm of what-ifs crashing against her resolve. She didn’t have a Bertha’s appointment tomorrow—John’s absence had paused the relentless schedule. He was gone until Sunday, too far to check in. She paced the kitchen, her heels clicking on the tile, her bouffant bobbing with each step. Could I? The thought felt illicit, electric.
She remembered the eyebrows—how she’d begged John for thin, modern brows back in ‘73, and he’d agreed, spinning it into his own vintage twist. He’d liked the surprise, hadn’t he? Called her his “glamour girl” with those 1933 arcs. Maybe this could be like that—a welcomed shock, a gift. A perm, soft and frizzy, still shaved at the nape but free on top. Not the wedge bob that had landed her with soap in her mouth, but a compromise, a nod to 1978 that he might embrace. Her pulse quickened at the fantasy: John coming home, running his hands through loose curls, smiling at her daring.
But then the doubts crept in, cold and sharp. What if he hated it? What if he saw betrayal in every curl, a rejection of his ‘60s dream? Bertha’s voice echoed—“How dare you?”—and the phantom taste of Dove soap coated her tongue. He’d waxed her nape higher after that last rebellion, a permanent mark of his control. This could be worse—clippers to her crown, or worse still, his quiet disappointment, the kind that cut deeper than any punishment. She loved him, didn’t she? Loved the life he’d built, the way he cherished her as his doll. But the mirror showed a stranger some days, and Sue’s words—“What do you want?”—rang louder than John’s praise.
That night, Lilly barely slept. She sat at her vanity, staring at the silk scarf guarding her bouffant, the razor and enema kit lined up like soldiers. The routine felt heavier without John’s presence to anchor it. By morning, she’d decided: she’d go to Design3. Not to commit—not yet—but to see. To stand in that salon, smell the perm solution, watch her friends transform, and feel the pull of possibility. She’d wear her shift dress, keep the bouffant up, play the part until the last second. If she chickened out, no one would know. If she didn’t… well, she’d cross that bridge when the scissors came out.
At 1:45 p.m., Lilly slipped into John’s truck—he’d left it behind—and drove downtown, her hands trembling on the wheel. Design3 loomed ahead, all glass and neon, a stark contrast to Bertha’s cinderblock relic. Through the window, she saw Sue’s frizzy head bobbing, Jan laughing, Kelly waving her in. Lilly parked, her breath shallow, and stepped out, the bouffant catching the breeze like a flag of another era. She hovered at the door, one hand on the handle, the other clutching her purse. Live a little, Sue had said. But could she? Or was she still John’s canvas, even with him miles away?
Lilly’s hand lingered on the door of Design3, then she pushed it open. The bell chimed, and the salon’s energy swallowed her whole—laughter, chatter, and the sharp tang of perm solution swirling in the air. Sue waved her over, her frizzy perm half-done, grinning wide. “You made it! Out of the time capsule at last!” Kelly and Jan piled on with hugs and teasing, their warmth pulling Lilly in like a tide. She barely had time to think before she was caught up in their orbit, the thrill of their freedom washing over her doubts.
Her friends’ perms started first, their hair twirled into tight rods as the stylists worked. Lilly watched, half-dazed, until Linda—a lanky stylist with a shag cut—sidled up. “Hi, I’m Linda. I’ll be doing your perm,” she said, assuming it was settled. “Like the others?”
Lilly’s heart skipped, but the salon’s buzz carried her forward. “Yes, please,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “Tight and frizzy.”
Linda laughed, eyeing the bouffant. “We’ve got serious deconstruction to do. Let’s wash that relic away.”
At the shampoo station, warm water hit her scalp, and the bouffant—John’s stiff, towering pride—dissolved under Linda’s hands. Years of teasing and spray sluiced down the drain, leaving her hair limp and exposed. Toweling off, Linda froze, her fingers brushing Lilly’s neck. “Whoa,” she said, voice dropping. “I saw some nape under that bouffant, but this? You’re bald halfway up your head—right to the crown. Are you sure about this?”
Lilly swallowed, the waxed expanse a glaring truth. Bertha would know the second she saw her, the bouffant gone, the betrayal bare. But her friends’ laughter rang in her ears, and she nodded. “Yes. Let’s try.”
Linda frowned. “I don’t think this’ll work with so much shaved off. The perm won’t have much to grab. You sure?”
“Please,” Lilly said, insistent, desperate. “Try.”
Linda shrugged and sectioned what was left—longer strands on top, but nothing below the crown where wax had stripped it clean. She rolled tight perm rods into the remaining hair, the tension sharp and unfamiliar, tugging her scalp harder than her usual rollers. Cotton coiled around her hairline, perm solution brushed on—its harsh stink a far cry from Bertha’s sweet lotion—and a plastic bag capped it all. Under the dryer, Lilly sat for half an hour, the heat humming as her pulse raced.
Her friends finished first, their perms springing into tight, frizzy halos, and they gathered around her chair, buzzing with excitement. “You’re gonna look killer!” Kelly said, practically bouncing. “A total 1978 vibe!” Sue and Jan nodded, eyes bright, waiting for the big reveal.
When the timer dinged, Linda pulled Lilly out, rinsed the solution, and unwound the rods. The room went quiet. Lilly glanced at the mirror, and her stomach dropped. The perm was a disaster. The top of her head—maybe ten inches of hair—had curled into a tight, puffy ball, a three-inch orb of frizz sticking out like a clown’s wig. Below it, her nape gleamed bald, waxed smooth from crown to base, a stark, shiny void. No patchy curls, no softening fringe—just bare skin meeting that absurd puff. She looked ridiculous.
Her friends’ enthusiasm shattered. Kelly gasped, hand to her mouth. Jan’s eyes widened, horrified. Sue stepped back, muttering, “Oh my God, Lilly…”
Lilly’s throat tightened, tears prickling as she touched the puffy ball, then the bald expanse. “I… I thought…” Her voice broke, and the tears spilled over, hot and fast. She cried—soft at first, then harder, shoulders shaking as the reality hit. She’d wanted freedom, a new her, but this? This was a nightmare.
Sue snapped into action, grabbing Lilly’s arm. “Go back to Bertha’s,” she said, urgent but gentle. “Right now. Have her set you back. She’ll fix this—bring back the bouffant, whatever John wants. You can’t let him see you like this.”
Lilly nodded through her sobs, the puffy perm wobbling as she stumbled to her feet. Her friends’ faces blurred—shock, pity, regret—and she clutched her purse, fleeing Design3 without a word. John’s truck sat outside, a lifeline back to her old self. She climbed in, tears streaking her coral lipstick, and drove toward Bertha’s, the bald nape cold against the seat. She’d crossed a line, and now she’d beg to cross back—praying Bertha could undo this mess before John’s return in four days. The perm’s stench clung to her, a bitter reminder of her misstep, and all she could think was: What have I done?
Lilly’s truck screeched into Bertha’s lot, her hands trembling as she killed the engine. The puffy perm ball perched atop her bald nape mocked her in the rearview mirror—a grotesque clown’s crown she couldn’t bear. Tears blurred her vision as she stumbled out, shift dress clinging to her sweat-damp skin, and burst into the salon without an appointment. The bell clanged, and the hum of dryers faltered as Bertha looked up from her coffee, her face hardening into a scowl.
“What the hell have you done?” Bertha snapped, slamming the mug down and storming over. She seized Lilly’s chin, twisting her head to inspect the frizzy puff and the stark, waxed nape beneath. “You washed my bouffant out? Went somewhere else? Start talking, girl.”
Lilly’s voice cracked, sobs spilling out. “I… I went to Design3 with friends. They got perms, and I thought John might like it—like the brows. But it’s horrible, Bertha. I look like a fool. Please, fix it—I’ll do anything to be his again.”
Bertha’s eyes bored into her, cold and unyielding. “Anything? John’s off working, and you betray him like this? Lucky for you, I can fix it—but it’s gonna cost you. We’re doing a tight perm, monthly, hidden under your bouffant forever. And John called yesterday with a warning: try this again, and you’re shaved and waxed right into your crown—no hair left to mess with. You hear me?”
Lilly nodded, relief warring with dread. “Yes, Bertha. Thank you. I just want it back—please, no more clown.”
Bertha’s mouth twitched, a grim flicker of amusement. “Oh, you’ll get it back. But first—” She spun, snatched a bar of Dove soap from the sink, and loomed over Lilly. “Open wide.” Lilly’s jaw dropped, and Bertha jammed the bar in, hard. “Bite down—harder than last time. It stays in till we’re done today. You’re gonna feel this one deep.”
The soap’s bitter flood hit instantly, coating her tongue with a nauseating slickness that made her gag. Her teeth sank deep, the taste searing, but Lilly nodded frantically, eyes watering as she mouthed a garbled “Thank you, Bertha” around it. This was right—punishment, purification, a path back to grace. She welcomed the sting, the drool pooling at her lips, her body trembling with the weight of her shame. She’d strayed, and this was her penance, a ritual to erase the frizzy disgrace.
Bertha shoved her into the chair, her hands rough but purposeful. “You’ve earned worse than soap,” she muttered, heating the wax. She didn’t stop at the usual high line—this time, she ripped the strips higher, past the crown’s edge, stripping a wider swath of scalp bare. The heat burned, the pulls sharp, and Lilly whimpered through the soap, drool dripping down her chin. Her nape gleamed, bald and vulnerable, a stark canvas for Bertha’s wrath. The pain was fierce, a reprimand etched into her skin, and Lilly’s tears flowed freer—regret, fear, but also a strange gratitude. She’d lost herself at Design3; this was bringing her home.
Next came the hair. Bertha sectioned the remaining strands—that pitiful puff—and rolled them into the tightest perm rods Lilly had ever felt, each twist a vice on her scalp. The solution stung, its acrid bite locked under a plastic cap, and Bertha parked her under “Lilly’s” dryer, the gold cursive glinting like a lifeline. The heat baked her punishment in, the soap’s taste unrelenting as drool soaked her collar. Lilly’s mind churned—shame at her rebellion, terror of John’s reaction, but beneath it, a flicker of hope. She’d be his doll again, not a laughingstock. The soap, the wax, the pain—they were stripping away her mistake, layer by layer.
An hour dragged by, each minute an eternity of muffled sobs and chemical fumes. Finally, Bertha rinsed the solution, unwound the rods, and revealed a tight, uniform perm—hidden as she teased it into a towering bouffant. She piled on spray, layer after layer, until it stood stiff and flawless, the perm a secret beneath John’s ‘60s dream. Lilly’s nape shone higher, waxed bare past where it once stopped, a permanent mark of her lesson. Bertha gripped the soap, yanking it from Lilly’s teeth—deep grooves carved into it—and pointed to the sink. “Rinse.”
Lilly stumbled over, spitting and scrubbing her raw tongue, the taste lingering like a ghost. She returned, shaky, and Bertha patted the fresh bouffant, its bubble gleaming. “There,” she said. “Set and waxed, with that monthly perm locked in. You’re his for life now, girl—no more straying. I’ll call John—he gave me his number. You’ll face him Sunday.”
Lilly touched the bouffant, its weight a balm after the day’s chaos, and a sob of joy broke free. “Thank you, Bertha,” she rasped, voice hoarse but alive. She ran her fingers along the high, bare nape—smooth, severe, hers again—and felt whole. The clown was gone, replaced by the doll John loved. Shame still gnawed—how could she have doubted him?—but the restoration flooded her with light. The soap’s sting, the wax’s burn, the perm’s hidden grip—they’d saved her, tethered her back to the life she’d chosen. Sunday loomed, John’s return a quiet dread, but for now, she was his Lilly, pristine and perfect, and that was enough.
As Bertha dialed John, Lilly slid under “Lilly’s,” the dryer’s hum a hymn of absolution. She smiled through drying tears, her bouffant a crown, her punishment a gift.
Sunday dawned crisp and quiet, the weight of Lilly’s restored bouffant a steady comfort as she paced the house. John’s truck rumbled into the drive at noon, dust swirling, and her pulse quickened—relief, nerves, and a flicker of joy tangling in her chest. She smoothed her shift dress, touched the high, waxed nape, and stood by the door, ready to face him. The key turned, and there he was—tall, road-worn, his hazel eyes locking onto her the second he stepped inside.
He dropped his bag, circling her slowly, taking in the towering bouffant, its glossy bubble flawless under the light. His fingers brushed the bare nape—higher now, waxed past the crown—and he nodded, a slow grin spreading. “Bertha called,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Told me everything—Design3, that clown perm, your little rebellion. But look at you now. Fixed up, locked in, sealed for life. My ‘60s doll, right where she belongs.”
Lilly exhaled, tears of gratitude prickling her eyes. “I’m so sorry, John. I thought you might like it, but it was awful. Bertha saved me—permed it tight, hid it under this. I’ll never stray again.”
John’s grin sharpened, possessive and pleased. “Good. That monthly perm’s staying—tight and hidden, just like she said. But from now on, when you’re under those rods, your mouth’s getting soaped. Every time. You’ll bite down hard, taste that lesson while it sets. Keeps you mine, inside and out.”
Lilly’s breath hitched, the memory of Dove’s bitter flood flashing back—the drool, the sting, the penance. But she nodded, fierce and eager, her voice ringing clear. “I’ll bite in hard, John! I deserve it—want it, even. Keeps me yours.” Her heart swelled with submissive joy, the punishment a seal on her devotion, a ritual to bind her closer.
John stepped closer, cupping her face, careful not to muss the hair. “That’s my girl. Now—” His voice dropped, a hungry edge creeping in. “It’s almost time for that bath. Get in there, do your best shaving—everything, smooth as glass. I’ll be taking you in the rear tonight.”
Lilly beamed, her cheeks flushing with eager delight. “Yes, John,” she said, practically glowing. She turned, heels clicking as she hurried upstairs, the promise of his touch lighting her steps. The bathroom steamed as she filled the tub, razor in hand, shaving with meticulous care—legs, arms, mound, between her cheeks—until her skin gleamed hairless from her thin brows down. The enema followed, cold and clinical, but she hummed through it, her mind on John, on pleasing him. By 9 p.m., she was in bed, silk scarf guarding the bouffant, her body pristine and waiting.
He came to her later, the mattress dipping as he climbed in, his hands roaming her smooth expanse—lingering on the high, bare nape, then lower. “Perfect,” he murmured, voice thick with want. “My doll, locked in for life.” Lilly pressed into him, submissive joy radiating through her, the soap’s echo and the perm’s secret melding with the night’s intimacy. She’d strayed, been punished, restored—and now, she was his, fully, fiercely, forever.
