Bouffant Shave
By 1985, Lilly’s life at 30 was a shrine to John’s early ‘60s obsession, every detail honed over seven years since her Design3 rebellion. John’s moving empire thrived, wealth stacking up, their grand house a bustle of maids and cooks. Lilly’s purpose was singular: she was his doll, sealed into his vision, her days a symphony of wax, spray, and submission. The years had polished her into a relic of his making, and she wore it with a quiet, radiant joy.
Her hair routine was unyielding. Three weekly trips to Bertha’s saw her nape waxed high—past the crown, a broad, bald expanse permanently bare after years of treatment. Monthly, Bertha rolled her remaining hair into tight perm rods, the solution’s acrid bite sinking in as Lilly sat under “Lilly’s” dryer, a bar of Dove soap clamped in her teeth. She bit hard, as vowed, drool dripping down her chin, the taste a bitter anchor while the perm set beneath the towering bouffant—teased stiff, sprayed glossy, a perfect ‘60s bubble hiding her secret curls. The soap stayed until Bertha pried it out, her tongue raw but her heart full, each punishment a thread tying her tighter to John.
Her body was just as meticulous. Every 8 p.m. bath meant shaving—legs, arms, mound, between her cheeks—until she gleamed hairless from her thin, penciled brows down, followed by an enema for pristine readiness. John’s preference for her rear held strong, and she prepped with eager care, her submission a gift she delighted in giving.
But John’s vision had evolved. A year back, he’d added cat-eye makeup to her daily requirements, inspired by Liz Taylor’s Cleopatra allure. Lilly mastered it at her vanity—thick black liner swooping into sharp wings, false lashes curling dramatic and bold, pale blue shadow framing the look. She’d sit for an hour, perfecting the flick, her thin 1933 brows arching above like a vintage stamp. John would watch, grinning, murmuring, “That’s my ‘60s queen,” his fingers grazing her nape as she blushed under the praise.
Then came the girdles. John had stumbled on a goldmine—a warehouse of unsold early 1960s stock, crates of full-control girdles in pristine condition, their rubber panels and boning a treasure trove of his fetish. He’d bought the lot, filling a spare room with boxes of Playtex and Maidenform relics—high-waisted, long-legged, zipped and hooked to sculpt a woman’s form into hourglass perfection. “No more modern looseness,” he’d declared, handing Lilly her first one—a white rubber monstrosity with garters dangling. “You’re wearing these now. Full control, every day.”
Lilly had wriggled into it, the girdle’s grip fierce, squeezing her waist, flattening her belly, lifting her rear into a smooth, retro curve. It was tight, unyielding, a second skin that forced her posture ramrod straight. She’d gasped at first, the constriction foreign after years of shift dresses, but John’s eyes lit up—hungry, approving—and she’d warmed to it. Now, she owned dozens, rotating through pastel pinks, creams, and blacks, each one zipped up before her dresses, locking her into his ‘60s silhouette.
That Sunday in ‘85, John sprawled in the den, eyeing her as she glided in with coffee—cat eyes sharp, bouffant gleaming, girdle cinching her beneath a mint-green shift dress. He patted the couch, pulling her close. “Seven years since that perm nonsense,” he said, tracing her high, bald nape. “Now look—locked in tight, sealed for life. Hair, makeup, girdle—my perfect doll.”
Lilly nestled into him, beaming. “I’m yours, John. The soap, the wax, the perm—it’s all perfect. And these?” She tugged at the dress, hinting at the girdle’s edge. “I love how they feel—how you want me.” The cat-eye liner flicked as she blinked up at him, her joy genuine, the years having forged her doubts into devotion.
“Damn right,” he said, his hand sliding to her cinched waist. “Bath’s soon. Shave your best—smooth everywhere. I’ll take you in the rear tonight.” Lilly’s eyes sparkled, submissive delight flooding her. “Yes, John,” she chirped, already imagining the razor’s glide, the girdle’s grip, the night ahead. She was his—hair, body, soul—sealed in his ‘60s dream, and that was her bliss.
Life in 1985 flowed like a well-oiled machine for Lilly, now 30, every moment tuned to John’s desires. Her towering bouffant gleamed, her cat-eye makeup winged sharp, and the full-control girdles—stockpiled from John’s warehouse haul—cinched her into his early ‘60s ideal. Three weekly trips to Bertha’s kept her nape waxed high and bare, her monthly perm hidden beneath the teased bubble, a bar of Dove soap bitten hard in her teeth as punishment and promise. Nights meant baths, shaving smooth from brows down, enemas for readiness—John’s rear preference a ritual she met with beaming, submissive joy. All went swimmingly, her world a polished tribute to his will.
Then, one muggy September afternoon, Lilly bumped into Sue at the grocery store. She wore her mint-green shift dress, girdle squeezing beneath, bouffant soaring, and cat eyes flicking as she reached for coffee. Sue, frizzy perm intact, stood with her husband Dennis—a stocky man with a quiet stare—both pausing as Lilly turned. Dennis’s eyes widened, tracing her ultra-feminine ‘60s look, a mix of awe and hunger flashing across his face. Sue caught it, her lips twitching, but she smiled anyway.
“Lilly, you’re a vision,” Sue said, half-teasing. “Still John’s doll, huh?”
Lilly laughed, smoothing her dress. “Always. Remember that perm mess back in ‘78? Design3 turned me into a clown—puffy ball on a bald nape. Bertha fixed me, but I’m still paying for it. Monthly perms under this bouffant, and I bite soap the whole time it sets. Keeps me his.”
Dennis leaned in, intrigued, his voice low. “Soap? Really?” Sue’s eyes narrowed, clocking his fascination, but Lilly nodded, proud.
“Every first Tuesday,” she said. “Bite hard, drool and all. It’s my punishment—my lock-in. John loves it.”
Sue smirked, but Dennis’s stare lingered, and Lilly saw the spark ignite. Two weeks later, the phone rang. Sue’s voice crackled through, tentative but firm. “Lilly, you did it to Dennis. He’s obsessed—wants me done like you. Bouffant, girdle, the works. Can you and Bertha help?”
Lilly’s heart leapt—another her age, a salon twin at last. She’d been Bertha’s youngest bouffant devotee, surrounded by women decades older, their styles relics of a fading era. Now Sue, 30 too, would join her. “Of course,” Lilly chirped. “I’ll set it up with Bertha. You’re in for a treat.”
The next day, Lilly dragged Sue to Bertha’s, explaining John’s blueprint. Bertha sized Sue up, grunting approval. “Same path as Lilly—high waxed nape, monthly tight perm under a bouffant, full ‘60s style. Dennis wants girdles too? John’s got crates; we’ll hook you up.” Sue nodded, nervous but game, and Dennis grinned from the waiting area, eyes gleaming. One rule stood firm: no soap for Sue. “That’s Lilly’s penance,” Bertha said, smirking. “She earned it.”
First Tuesdays became perm days, a shared sacrament. Sue’s transformation started—nape waxed high (though not as severe as Lilly’s permanent bald stretch), hair rolled tight, perm hidden beneath a towering bouffant. She donned a Playtex girdle from John’s stash, cinching her into a retro curve, and practiced cat-eye liner under Lilly’s tutelage. Lilly loved it—Sue beside her, a mirror of her age and style, giggling over rollers and spray as the older regulars nodded approval.
But perm days showed their divide. Under “Lilly’s” dryer, Bertha handed Lilly the soap bar, and she took it willingly, biting hard as the rods set. Sue watched, shaking her head in disbelief as Lilly’s teeth sank in, drool spilling down her chin, the taste bitter but sacred. “You’re crazy,” Sue muttered, her own perm drying soap-free. Lilly just smiled around the bar, eyes bright, mouthing a muffled “It’s mine” before settling in, the punishment her joy, her bond to John.
An hour later, Bertha pried the soap from Lilly’s teeth, grooves deep from her eager grip, and let her rinse. Both women emerged—bouffants stiff, napes bare, girdles tight—twin ‘60s dolls for their men. Sue hugged Lilly, laughing. “Dennis is thrilled. You’re a lifesaver.” Lilly beamed, her raw tongue a badge, her heart full. She had a salon sister now, but the soap, the wax, the bite—that was hers alone, a thrill Sue’d never know.
Back home, John clapped her shoulder. “Good work with Sue. Keeps you sharp.” Lilly glowed, already counting down to the next Tuesday, her bar of soap waiting.
By 1988, Lilly’s life at 33 was a well-worn groove, her every move a testament to John’s early ‘60s vision. The bouffant soared, cat eyes flicked sharp, girdles cinched her tight—her nape waxed high and bald, monthly perms hidden beneath, soap bitten hard each time. Sue mirrored her now, a bouffant twin thanks to Dennis’s delight, and their first-Tuesday perm days at Bertha’s were a ritual of camaraderie. John’s empire hummed, Lilly’s devotion unwavering, until one spring day when Bertha dropped a bombshell.
“I’m retiring,” Bertha announced, her voice gruff as she patted Lilly’s fresh bouffant. The salon hushed, rollers pausing mid-twirl. “Been at this forty years—time to rest. My daughter Carla’s taking over. She’s your age, Lilly—33—and I’ve taught her everything. She’ll keep you and Sue right.”
Carla stepped forward, a stark contrast to her mother. Where Bertha was stout with a beehive, Carla was lanky, her natural hair a loose, free cascade of curls—untamed, modern, a ‘70s echo. Lilly eyed her warily, but Bertha’s nod was firm. “She’s got the touch. Trained her myself, especially for you, Lilly—your soapings and all.”
The handover began. Bertha spent weeks schooling Carla—waxing Lilly’s nape to its high, bald sheen, teasing the bouffant stiff, rolling Sue’s perm tight. For Lilly, the soap was key. Bertha demonstrated: “First Tuesday, perm day, she gets the bar. Thrust it in, tell her ‘Bite hard,’ and leave it till the end. She drools, she takes it—it’s her way.” Carla watched, wide-eyed but attentive, as Lilly bit down, the familiar bitter flood a comfort, her eyes gleaming with trust.
By summer, Carla ran the show. Despite her free-flowing hair, she’d learned well—Lilly’s bouffant emerged flawless, a glossy ‘60s bubble, the perm beneath tight and hidden, the waxed nape smooth as glass. Sue’s look held too, her girdle-and-bouffant style pristine for Dennis. The older regulars grumbled about Carla’s modern vibe, but Lilly liked her—same age, a quiet kinship forming, even if Carla didn’t grasp the why of her rules.
Sometimes, though, Carla slipped. One first Tuesday, Lilly sat in the chair, perm due, but Carla started sectioning her hair without a word. Lilly frowned, touching her bouffant. “Carla, it’s perm day—the first Tuesday.”
Carla paused, comb in hand, glancing at the tight curls beneath. “You think you need it? The perm’s still strong—holds like iron.”
Lilly’s voice was firm, almost pleading. “Yes, I need it. Effective every month, no exceptions. It’s how it works—how John wants it.”
Carla shrugged, a faint smile tugging her lips. “Okay, let’s get started with the perm rods—”
“Wait,” Lilly cut in, insistent. “My perm starts with the soaping. You forgot.”
Carla blinked, then laughed—a short, startled sound. “Sorry, you’re right. Got ahead of myself. Okay—open wide.” She grabbed the Dove bar from the sink, thrust it into Lilly’s mouth with a quick, practiced shove, and barked, “Bite hard!”
Lilly’s teeth sank in, the bitter taste surging, drool pooling instantly as she nodded gratitude. Carla smirked, shaking her head—“You’re something else”—and got to work. She waxed Lilly’s nape higher, the hot strips ripping clean, then rolled the remaining hair into tight rods, the tension sharp. Perm solution followed, its sting sealed under a cap, and Lilly sat under “Lilly’s” dryer, soap locked in place, the hum blending with her muffled breaths. Sue, perming beside her soap-free, shot her an amused glance but said nothing.
An hour later, Carla rinsed the solution, teased the new perm into a towering bouffant, and sprayed it stiff—perfect, as Bertha taught. She pried the soap from Lilly’s teeth—deep grooves marking her bite—and waved her off. “Rinse.” Lilly scrubbed her raw tongue, then beamed at the mirror: the bubble gleamed, the nape shone, her ‘60s doll self intact.
Carla patted her shoulder, grinning. “You’re a stickler, huh? Mom trained me right—don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Lilly smiled back, warm and sure. “Thanks, Carla. It’s got to be exact—John’s way. And Sue’s too, for Dennis.” She glanced at Sue, bouffant twin beside her, and felt a rush of pride. Carla might forget, might not get the soul of it, but she’d keep them locked in—Lilly with her soap, Sue without. First Tuesdays stretched ahead, a shared path under new hands, and Lilly savored it: her punishment, her perfection, her place.
Chapter: 1998 – The Last Bouffant Bastion
By 1998, Lilly was 43, her life a steadfast echo of John’s ‘60s dream—bouffant towering, nape waxed bald, cat eyes sharp, girdles tight from his warehouse stash. Carla, still 33 in spirit despite the years, had kept her and Sue pristine at Bertha’s salon, their monthly perms and Lilly’s soapings a sacred rite. But the world had shifted—grunge and sleek bobs ruled, and the salon’s older bouffant ladies were fading. One gray October day, Carla broke the news, her voice heavy as she patted Lilly’s fresh bubble.
“Most of the old gals are dying off,” Carla said, her free curls limp with defeat. “No fresh customers—barely enough to keep the lights on. I’m closing shop, Lilly. End of an era.”
Lilly’s heart sank, her hand flying to her bouffant. “No—Carla, we can’t lose this. I’ll talk to John. He’ll know what to do.”
That night, John listened, his jaw set as Lilly pleaded over dinner—shift dress crisp, cat eyes pleading too. “Carla’s everything, John. She keeps me yours—Sue too, for Dennis. We can’t let it go.” John nodded, his mind already turning. By morning, he had the answer. “I’ll buy the big cosmetology academy on Main Street,” he said, sipping coffee. “Carla runs it, keeps the old ways alive. But you’re working there, Lilly—9 a.m. to 6 p.m., six days a week. You’ll be a hair model. Students practice on you—live, not dummies. Keeps your bouffant sharp.”
Lilly blinked, then beamed. “Yes, John—anything. I’ll do it.” The deal was struck—John’s wealth snapped up the academy, a sprawling relic of beauty training, and Carla took the helm, her curls a defiant flag amid the modern tide.
The new routine was relentless. Lilly traded her quiet days for the academy’s bustle, her hair a canvas for eager students. They practiced old-school bouffant techniques—usually on dummy heads—but Lilly was their star, a living model. Her hair might be done three, four times a day: washed out, teased high, sprayed stiff, then undone for the next round. Instructors hovered, correcting shaky hands, but by day’s end, one would step in, crafting a final bouffant—exact, glossy, John’s ideal—to send her home. Carla still ruled first Tuesdays, waxing Lilly’s nape higher, rolling tight perm rods, thrusting the Dove bar in with a familiar “Bite hard!” Lilly bit down, drool pooling as the perm set, her joy undimmed under “Lilly’s” dryer.
She loved it—the young students, 18 to 20, buzzing around her, their curiosity electric. “How’d you get like this?” they’d ask, wide-eyed, as they teased her hair. Lilly shared her tale—John’s ‘60s fetish, the perm rebellion of ‘78, the soapings that locked her in—her voice warm, a storyteller among apprentices. Some caught the spark: a few girls experimented with bouffants, boys shaved napes high, one even penciled 1933 brows, mirroring Lilly’s thin arcs. She hit 30 bouffants a week—six days, five a day on busy stretches—her scalp tender but her spirit soaring. She was a relic, a muse, their link to a lost art.
John swelled with pride. “You’re keeping it alive,” he told her one Sunday, tracing her high, bare nape as she prepped her bath. “My doll, out there every day—perfect.” Lilly glowed, shaving smooth for him, eager for his rear ritual. “It’s for you, John. Always.”
Sue joined soon after, Dennis nudging her in. At 43 too, she became a model—bouffant teased daily, nape waxed, no soap but the same ‘60s shine. They’d sit side by side, Lilly biting soap on perm days, Sue shaking her head—“Still crazy”—while students swarmed. Carla watched, grinning, her academy thriving. “You two are my anchors,” she said, patting their twin bouffants. “Mom’d love this.”
Lilly squeezed Carla’s hand, their bond deeper now—keeper and kept, friends through decades. The soap stung, the wax burned, the bouffants piled up, but Lilly thrived—John’s pride, Carla’s star, a ‘60s beacon in a ‘90s world.
Chapter: 2005 – A Legacy in Soap and Spray
In the quiet of early 2005, John’s heart gave out, a sudden collapse at 57 that left Lilly, now 50, a widow with millions. His moving empire, the cosmetology academy, the warehouse of ‘60s girdles—all of it passed to her, a vast fortune tied to his vision. Grief carved a hollow in her chest, but Lilly stood firm at his funeral, bouffant towering, cat eyes sharp, girdle cinched beneath her black shift dress. The next day, she gathered the academy staff and students, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
“Nothing changes,” she declared, her high, waxed nape gleaming under the lights. “John built this—his dream, my life. I’ll keep modeling, six days a week, 9 to 6. The bouffant stays, the students learn. For him.” Carla, graying but still curly, squeezed her shoulder, and Sue, bouffant twin at her side, nodded. The academy buzzed on, Lilly its beating heart.
That night, alone in their sprawling house, Lilly faced her 8 p.m. bath ritual—unchanged since 1973. She’d vowed to keep it: the shaving from brows down, the enema, the 9 p.m. bedtime, all John’s rules etched into her soul. The tub steamed, razor ready, but her eyes caught the bar of Dove soap on the edge, its creamy sheen glinting. She froze. For decades, she’d bitten soap at Bertha’s, then Carla’s, for perms—hated its bitter flood, the way it lingered long after, a punishment she’d embraced for him. Now, John was gone, yet the bar sat there, a silent command from beyond.
Her breath hitched, memories surging—John’s grin as she bit down, his “My doll” murmured against her nape, the soap a thread to his love. Tears welled, but resolve hardened. “For you,” she whispered, and decided then: until she died, every bath would be soaped, a tribute to keep him near. She opened her mouth wide, slid the bar in, and bit down hard, the taste exploding—sharp, slick, unbearable, yet hers. Drool pooled instantly, frothing at her lips, but she held it, sinking into the warm water.
The ritual began. Razor in hand, she shaved—legs, arms, mound, between her cheeks—each stroke smooth, the soap’s sting a constant hum as her tongue pressed against it. She prepped the enema, the warm soapy water flowing in, mirroring the froth in her mouth, a dual cleansing inside and out. Lilly relaxed, content, the tub a sanctuary where John’s presence lingered. It was as if he watched from heaven, commanding her still—“Bite hard, my girl”—and she obeyed, her body his canvas even now.
She finished, soap still locked in her teeth, and stood, dripping, to towel off. The bar stayed until she spat it out at 8:55, grooves deep from her grip, her tongue raw as she rinsed. By 9, she was in bed, bouffant scarfed, skin hairless, heart full. The taste lingered—hated, yes, but sacred, a lifeline to John. At the academy, she’d model—30 bouffants a week, Carla’s perm and soap on first Tuesdays unchanged—but the bath soap was hers alone, a vow beyond his grave.
Carla noticed the shift. Next perm day, as Lilly bit the bar, Carla grinned. “You’re glowing—still his?” Lilly nodded, muffled, drool dripping, and Carla patted her bouffant later. “He’d be proud.” Sue, soap-free beside her, marveled—“You’re unbreakable”—but Lilly knew: the soap, the bouffant, the girdle—they were John, and she’d carry them to her last breath, content in his eternal command.
John’s death in early 2005 left Lilly, at 50, a widow with millions—the moving empire, the cosmetology academy, and his ‘60s relics all hers. She vowed to keep the academy alive, modeling her bouffant six days a week, 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., a living testament to his vision. Carla, now 50 too, her curls streaked with gray but still free, ran the school with a steady hand, and their bond—forged over decades of wax, spray, and soap—became Lilly’s anchor in a world without John.
Their friendship had deepened since Carla took over from Bertha in ‘88. Same age, different souls—Lilly locked in John’s ‘60s fetish, Carla a ‘70s spirit—yet they’d clicked, a stylist and her star sharing laughs over rollers and life. John’s passing tested it, but Carla was there, her hand on Lilly’s shoulder at the funeral, her voice soft: “We’ll keep it going, for him.” Lilly clung to that, her bouffant towering, cat eyes sharp, girdle tight, as they faced the future together.
At the academy, Lilly’s role as a model was relentless—30 bouffants a week, students teasing her hair into stiff bubbles, her high, waxed nape a teaching tool. Carla oversaw it all, her curls bouncing as she corrected shaky hands. First Tuesdays stayed sacred: Carla waxed Lilly’s nape higher, rolled tight perm rods, and thrust the Dove soap in with a familiar “Bite hard!” Lilly bit down, drool frothing, the taste a bitter thread to John she’d never cut. Carla watched, her grin wry but warm, prying the bar free later—grooves deep—and patting the fresh bouffant. “Still his girl,” she’d say, and Lilly’d nod, raw-tongued but content.
John’s absence sharpened their bond. One Tuesday, as Lilly sat under “Lilly’s” dryer, soap in mouth, Carla lingered, her usual bustle paused. “You okay?” she asked, voice low over the hum. Lilly, muffled, managed a “Mmm-hmm,” her eyes soft with gratitude. Carla sighed, brushing a stray curl from her own face. “You’re tougher than me—always were. I’d have ditched that soap years ago.” Lilly smiled around the bar, drool dripping, and Carla chuckled, their unspoken pact stronger than words.
The bath ritual sealed it. That first night after John’s death, Lilly added soap to her 8 p.m. routine—biting hard as she shaved smooth, enema flowing, the taste a vow to him till her end. She told Carla the next perm day, post-rinse, her bouffant gleaming. “Every bath now—I soap my mouth. For John.” Carla’s brows shot up, then softened. “You’re crazy, you know that? But it’s you—his Lilly.” She hugged her, rare and fierce, curls tangling with the bouffant’s edge. “I’ll keep the perm soap going too. We’re in this together.”
Their roles blurred—Carla the keeper, Lilly the canvas, but friends first. Students saw it, whispering how “Miss Lilly and Miss Carla” were a team—Lilly sharing her tale (John, the perm fiasco, the soapings), Carla nodding along, adding dry quips: “She’s why I’ve got gray hairs.” Lilly loved the young crowd, their bouffant experiments and shaved-nape dares, but Carla grounded her, a tether when grief loomed.
One evening, after a long Saturday—five bouffants, scalp sore—Lilly lingered as Carla locked up. “You ever think of quitting?” Lilly asked, girdle creaking as she leaned on the counter. Carla snorted, keys jangling. “And leave you? Nah. You’re stuck with me—soap and all.” Lilly laughed, her cat eyes crinkling, and felt John’s presence in the echo—Carla her lifeline, their bond a quiet legacy.
Home that night, Lilly bit the soap for her bath, shaving smooth, enema warm, froth bubbling as she relaxed. Carla’s words rang—“We’re in this together”—and she smiled, the taste bitter but sweet with memory. John commanded from heaven, but Carla held her here, friends through every bouffant, every bar.
