Bouffant Shave
Jennifer Grayson had been a fixture at Rose’s Beauty Parlor since 1960, when she was a newlywed with a dime-store ring and a bouffant as big as her dreams. Three times a week, Rose—wiry, warm-eyed, and a wizard with a teasing comb—crafted her chestnut bubble, a solid, glossy tower unchanged for a decade. In Elmwood, where cherry phosphates flowed at the diner and Motown crackled on the radio, Jennifer’s hair was her rock—her shield against life’s stumbles.
But in fall 1970, life stumbled hard. Her husband, Tom, a lineman, lost his job when the power company slashed shifts. Bills stacked up, and Jennifer’s $3 visits to Rose’s—plus tip—turned into luxuries she couldn’t stomach. At her kitchen table, she ran a hand through her stiff curls, tears spilling. “I can’t keep it up,” she whispered, dreading the limp wreck her hair would become without Rose. In Elmwood, a flat head meant pitying stares—she couldn’t bear it.
The next day, she shuffled into Rose’s, her appointment a plea. The shop hummed with dryers, scented with ammonia and lavender. Rose saw Jennifer’s red-rimmed eyes, set down her comb, and pulled up a stool. “What’s wrong, honey?” Jennifer’s voice broke. “Tom’s out of work. I can’t afford this anymore. I don’t know what I’ll do without my hair.”
Rose studied her, then smiled softly. “Don’t cry, Jen. I’ve got you. We’ll get a wig—synthetic, but perfect. I’ll style it to match your bouffant, same height, same shine. Wear it by day, off at night—no teasing, no spray. It’ll stay fresh for months, save you plenty.” Jennifer’s tears paused. “But my real hair?” Rose’s grin turned sly. “I’ll shave you smooth bald. No roots, no bumps—your wig’ll fit seamless. You’ll still be you.”
Bald. The word jolted her. Ten years of hair, gone? But the alternative—straggly, faded, a shadow of herself—felt worse. With a wig, she’d keep her bouffant, her pride, and her budget. A laugh bubbled up through her tears. “Clippers, here I come,” she said, grinning at Rose like they were in cahoots.
Rose clapped. “That’s my girl.” The clippers hummed to life, and Jennifer closed her eyes as the cape settled over her. Chestnut curls fell like autumn leaves, the blades leaving cool, bare scalp in their wake. “Smooth as a peach,” Rose declared, brushing away the last strands. The mirror flashed—Jennifer gaped at her bald head, then laughed again. Wild, but hers.
The wig was next, a pre-ordered gem Rose had stashed. Chestnut, swooping, perfect—it was her bouffant reborn. Rose pinned it snug, tweaked it, spritzed it. “There,” she said, spinning the chair. Jennifer gasped. Identical. Seamless. She tilted her head, marveling. No one would know.
At home, she named the Styrofoam head “Jenny Two,” slipping the wig off each night as Tom snored. Her bald scalp felt odd, but the bankbook breathed easier. In town, her wig held high, Clara Henshaw squinted at the diner. “New hairspray, Jen?” Jennifer winked. “Something like that.”
Every few months, she’d visit Rose for a scalp shave and wig touch-up—cheaper than the old days. But when the wig needed a full redo—restyling, recurling—Jennifer got sentimental. Rose had wig-drying stands, practical and quick, but Jennifer waved them off. “Set it in curlers,” she’d say, “and stick me under the dryer. For old times’ sake.” Rose chuckled, obliging. She’d roll the wig tight, pin it up, and Jennifer would sit, bald head bare, the curlered wig baking under the hood. The heat, the hum, the faint perm-solution whiff—it was 1960 again, her bubble taking shape. She’d close her eyes, smiling, lost in the ritual.
“Never thought I’d miss those rods,” she’d muse, patting the finished wig as Rose pinned it back on. Rose’d grin. “You’re a softie, Jen.” And out she’d go, bouffant gleaming, baldness hidden—a secret between them.
In Elmwood, where change crept slow, Jennifer Grayson stayed a constant. Her wig, her shield, held firm—clippers, curlers, and all. No one guessed the truth beneath, and she liked it that way.
