Becoming His Baldie

Due to circumstance, Sarah and her son Dave leave their life on the Upper West Side behind and move to Harlem. There, Sarah meets a man who makes her question everything she thought she knew about herself, and in an attempt to please him, she finds herself contemplating something she would have never previously imagined doing.

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It is dawn, but I woke up promptly to my alarm. I brush my teeth, bathe, put my hair up with a claw clip, and change into my uniform—the mostly pale blue and white dress of Frank’s Family Diner, which arrived in a parcel on the doorstep yesterday. On my way to the door, I pass my son Dave crashed on the couch. He is eighteen now, but in his face I still see the carefree boy that I walked to school and walked to the park. I kiss him on the cheek and leave the apartment.

It has been a week since we moved to Harlem, Dave and I. The happening streets and low-rise blocks are slowly beginning to seem familiar, even though it is quite a departure from the Upper West Side. However, every walk on the street brings with it a feeling that I’m being watched, and sure enough, from the buildings on either side of the road, almost always there is someone watching. I do not know yet what to make of it, but for the time being I conclude it is simply due to the fact that I’m white and so stand out here.

It is almost 7 AM when I reach the diner. Inside it is mostly empty, with only a single customer seated at the table and the others being waiters. Frank is at the register, sifting through the cash in it. He is in his fifties, but between his solid frame, his head thick with salt-and-pepper hair, and immaculate ebony skin, one could never guess.

Frank notices me coming and smiles. “Hey Sarah!”

I smile back at him. “Hi. Do I start?”

“Yes, go ahead. Since this is your first day, you will just be taking orders. Sound good?”

I nod.

“Cool. Actually, Sarah, come over here for a sec. There’s something else that needs telling.”

I walk over to the register, unsure of what it is that Frank wants to add.

Frank lowers his voice. “I don’t know how aware you’re of such things, but Harlem is mostly Black, and so are our customers. There are certain… perceptions, that people have over white people, and white women especially, or even women in general. That is to say that you may have some customers behaving in an… un-classy manner. I’m sure you’ve experienced this on some level before since this isn’t your first service gig, but I thought you should know since you’re new here in Harlem. Clear?”

I nod. The previous experience that Frank refers to is a lie made up to improve my chances at getting this job, but I understand on some level what he is talking about.

“Okay. Now get to work!”

And get to work I do. There isn’t much to do in the first hour, but when the customers start piling in, I find myself frantically pacing from one side of the diner to the other. A few customers stare at me as I pass, but I do not think it to be unusual, as I’m a new waitress at a diner at which they’re presumably a regular.

It is towards the closing of breakfast time when a group of three guys appears. There is something about their manner that made it immediately apparent that they’re different. Maybe it is their toned builds, or their unique dressing sense, or the way they barge into the diner talking loudly with little care for what others think.

They look young. They look like they can’t be a decade older than my son.

One of the three raises his hand, in a nonchalant manner, while he is engrossed in some deep discussion with the other two. Lost in my thoughts, it takes a while for me to realize that he is calling for me. It becomes apparent that he simply raised his hand out of habit, because it is only when I come towards the table that the group notice me. The easygoing friendly banter is replaced by looks of curiosity.

“H-hi. Welcome to Frank’s Family Diner. What would you like to order?”

They do not respond immediately, and instead continue to stare. Until one of them remarks, “Damn, Frank is hiring white people now?”

Another adds in a low voice, “And she got some mad cake, no cap.”

The comment takes me back a little, but I maintain my composure. I remember what Frank told me.

The third, the young man who initially raised his hand, speaks up. “Homies! Let’s place our order first, huh?” He then turns to me. “I apologize ma’am, this is just the way we are. We mean no harm. Can you get us three pancakes please?”

There is something about the way in which the third talks. He is just as flashy as his two friends, but he speaks in a much softer manner and has a calmer demeanor to him. I nod. “Three pancakes, coming right up.”

As I turn around and walk towards the kitchen, I hear snickers and giggles coming from the table. There is a juvenile naughty quality to it, yet I do not mind one bit. On the contrary, I try not to blush.

With what is likely the last breakfast order taken, Frank tells me that I’m now on break, and someone else will handle serving the good and serving the bill to the table of three. A part of me wanted to protest, to insist that I’d like to handle them, but the part of me that wanted to rest won out. So I went outside and into the narrow alley beside the diner. I loosen the collar of my shirt and let my hair, which has been sitting in a sweltering bun, down. I take out my phone and scroll through Instagram endlessly. I am in my late thirties, an elder millennial, yet the affliction of social media addiction is one that I share with the younger generation.

With my mind on the phone, I think back to what was said. The racy comments by the dudes. It was a vulgar comment, one that any self-respecting woman such as myself should look down on. Yet, it made me feel a way that I hadn’t felt in years. A way that I hadn’t felt since the earliest years of my marriage, or at least what was my marriage.

I try not to think about it further, and my mind drifts back to my phone.

I must have, unbeknownst to me, been there for a while too, and it hits me when I hear a familiar voice.

“Damn girl, whatchu doing here?”

I glance up and nearly drop my phone. It is the customer, the guy from the group of three. The one who raised his hand, the one who apologized for his friends.

I tense a little, taken aback by his sudden appearance. “I-I’m just on my break.”

“Oh I see. Cool.”

There are a few moments of silence. I stare at the ground, and I feel the young man stare at me.

“I must ask though, since I’m curious—what are you doing working in a diner in Harlem? You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

I hesitate. I’ve been conscious about how I and Dave are out-of-place here ever since we moved, yet I wasn’t expecting to be asked about it head-on. “Yes… we are not from here. We… lived in the Upper West Side.”

The guy whistles. “Dang, the Upper West Side? Don’t only rich people live there?”

I blush. “Not quite, all sorts of people live there.” The guy raises an eye at that. “I mean,” I quickly add, “not just rich people live there. A lot of middle-class families too.”

“I see. Damn girl, you must have had a terrible run of fortune then to end up here from there.” He then extends his arm, offering his hand. “My name is Derek, by the way. Or as the people in the hood know me, Daddy-D.” He quickly shakes his head. “I ain’t no real daddy though, the name just stuck since I was a kid.

I laugh. Not the ordinary chuckle that I usually offer out of politeness, but a genuine laugh. I take his hand. “I’m Sarah.”

“Sarah, I see. Mhm. Cool, cool.” Derek’s eyes are on the ground, just as mine were. It is clear that something is on his mind. I sense a hesitation from him that I’ve seen in a several peers back when I was in school and college.

“Derek? Is something on your mind?”

“Nah. It is just… you seem real chill and all, and… I’d like to get to know you further?”

I chuckle. “Care to elaborate?”

Derek gets flustered. “No it is just, you’re so nice and stuff, you seem like we could have real fun hanging out you know?” Derek shakes his head, even more embarrassed now. “Christ I’m just making it worse, ain’t I? I mean-”

“Yes.”

Derek pauses. “Yes?”

I feel the heat rising in me. “Yes… we can hang out.” Thoughts of the later years of my marriage come flooding back to me. Not the good memories, but the frustration. The lack of love and intimacy, or even decent human courtship. “You can… come over to my place tonight… if you’d like.”

Derek eyes widen. “What? For real?”

I nod, struggling to keep my face from turning red. “Yes.”

Derek is still in a state of disbelief. “You mean for like-“ He shakes his head. “Actually, never mind. I’ll come.” He smiles, and passes his phone to me.

I type in my phone, and my address. As I walk back to the restaurant, my body is shaking with excitement.

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I reached home in the evening, and headed right away for my room. My shift ended with lunch, but I was out a few more hours with my co-waitress and new friend Denise. Like all the other waitresses, she is quite young—still in her early twenties, making her almost twenty years younger than I am. If there was one thing she knew far better than I did, it is how to dress to impress a young Black man, and so she accompanied me to the thrift store, where we picked out my outfit for today’s date with Derek.

I come out of my room fully dressed, and Dave’s expression says it all.

“Mom, why are you dressed like this?”

I check out my look in the mirror. Above my waist is a pink sleeveless crop-top, several sizes small too for me, but still bought on Denise’s insistence that it would show off my cleavage. My shoulders and belly, which are almost always hidden beneath clothing, are fully exposed. Below I wear mini shorts, dangerously mini and short, shorter than most pairs of boxers that I’ve seen. My hair, which is usually up in a bun or loose, is tied in a single ponytail that falls down to my waist. Hair that is only this long because of a laziness I’ve developed towards visiting the salon for the past few years.

I turn around, do a few poses, doing a final check. If there’s one word that perfectly describes my outfit, it is raunchy. I feel like a complete slut.

I turn towards Dave. “No specific reason. An old friend who I met after so long is coming over. I guess I simply just wanted to feel like my old college-self again.” The last line wasn’t a lie.

Dave buries his face in his hands. “Mom!” he screams, as if the very notion of his mother once being a college student offends him. I laugh and take my seat on the sofa, waiting for the doorbell to ring. I’m dying of nervousness and embarrassment, but watching my son cringe makes me feel a little better unexpectedly.

While I sit on the couch, I think about what will happen. Derek seemed quite flustered when I said yes, like he wasn’t expecting anything to come of it, and I wonder if he will be hesitant tonight, requiring me to take the lead. Since this is only a first date, even if it can be called a date, I doubt anything will happen.

I think about my life leading up to this. About how I and my son ended up here in the first place. The divorce. The cheating. The anger when I found out. The anger on finding out that my husband had the drive, but just simply didn’t have the feelings towards me.

The door bell rings. I panic. I walk to the door, doing my best to keep up the pretense that I’m just meeting an old friend, nothing more. I open the door, and Derek is there, beaming.

“Derek!” I exclaim. I check my watch. “You’re… early.”

Derek looks confused. “I am? Ain’t this the time we-”

I fluster. “Never mind. Come in, come in.”

I lead Derek inside. I see Derek and Dave exchange stares.

“Dang, you have a brother?”

I curse myself. I should have told Derek in advance about Dave and about what I told him, but I didn’t think to as I expected Dave to be away.

“No, I’m her son, actually.” Dave gets up and waves his hand awkwardly. “I’m Dave.”

“Dang.” Derek turns to me. “What the hell? You a momma-”

“Derek,” I say, “let me show you my room.“ I turn to Dave. “And you—could you stay in your room? Derek and I haven’t talked in years, and we have a lot of catching up to do. Okay?”

Dave nods. He is clearly suspicious of who Derek really is and why he’s here, but he doesn’t say anything. Still, there is an expression of bewilderment, which I do not blame him for.

After Dave scurries away, I turn to Derek. I consider again what I’m about to do. This is just the first date, I remind myself. But then I remember everything I was thinking about earlier. The anger. The frustration. The longing to be desired.

Derek is quite tall, and so I get on my tiptoes. We stare into each other’s eyes, letting the moment linger. Knowing that there is no going back now, I muster my confidence and speak.

“Show me what you’re made of.”

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Derek shows me what he’s made of.

I was quite promiscuous as a college student, before I met Dave’s dad. Not the most promiscuous, but I had my fair share of sleeping with several guys. Yet, I never slept with a Black man before. Mostly because the people in the little town I grew up and studied in upstate New York were white, but also because of my conservative parents’ insistence that I do not sleep with someone outside our race. “Once you go Black you never go back” is a phrase that I’ve heard so many times before, and today I saw why.

It was slow at first. Even after the door shut, Derek seemed hesitant. Maybe it was his first time with a white woman, or maybe it was his first time with someone older. But I took charge, opening up the button of my skirt and unzipping it a tad, teasing him with what awaited him.

It was when I lowered my panty a little, exposing my vagina, that his switch flicked. He pinned me against the musty wall. My boobs were pressed against the wall and it hurts, but the feeling is offset by the profound sensation that comes over me when Derek penetrates me. For all his gentlemanly behavior, Derek sure does go hard with sex. With little care, he pushes into me and out and claps my butt now and then. The sex I’ve experienced so far in my life has always been about mutual care, so to be treated almost exclusively as an object of desire was new to me. But I loved it.

With the wall pounding complete, Derek threw me onto the bed and sat atop me. His heavy moans and heaving made it clear that he was close to finishing. He pushed and slapped and clapped and pulled on my hair, and I did not resist. I was the object of desire to Derek, and I was to let him do whatever he wanted with me.

I squeal as Derek finishes all over me. I feel his semen dribbling into my vagina, and then falling on my body, and then my hair. When all is done, Derek crashes onto the bed beside me. I get up and go to the bathroom, to examine myself in the mirror. My hair, which was in a neat ponytail before, is a complete mess. The hair tie is dangling halfway down my length, and there are loose strands all over my face. There are also specks of cum on my hair, and across my back.

Overall, I look like a dirty whore. But I smile.

I go back to the room. Derek is spreadeagled on the bed, presumably tired. Throughout the sex Derek led, but with him lying down from exhaustion, I again feel the onus is on me to take initiative. I sit beside him and bring my ponytail forward so that it is in view, and massage his body.

“Are you tired, Derek? So quick? I thought you had more in you,” I tease.

Derek laughs gently. “Well…”

”What?”

“To be straight with you, I think I’ve had enough today.”

I stop and frown. “Really? But we’ve only just begun.”

“Yeah.”

I slip my fingers towards Derek’s cock and bend myself close to his face, letting my hair fall into his face.

“Is that so? I think you’re just playing hard to get, aren’t you? Let me-”

In a flash, Derek swings his hand and whacks my hair out of his face. “Stop,” he says sternly. “I said enough.”

The words feel like a slap to my face. I move away from Derek and put some distance between us. His voice was louder than the calm voice that I’d heard from him until now, so even if it was only a refusal, they sting. I feel tears welling up in my eyes, but control the urge to sob.

Derek looks regretful. He comes over to me and sits beside me, putting his arm over me. “Hey I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Are you okay?”

I take a few deep breaths. “Yes… I’m fine. I just… why do you not want to continue?”

Derek sighs. “Sarah…”

“Is it because I’m too old? Because I’m no longer a young woman? No longer a woman still brimming with desire?”

“No, it ain’t that.”

I turn to face him. “What is it then?”

Derek sighs, and then chuckles. “If I told you, you’d laugh at me.”

I look at him quizzically. “Are you gay? Just so you know, you wouldn’t be the first guy to realize that he’s gay after having sex with me.”

Derek laughs. “Nah that’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Derek sighs. “In the hood,” he says, “we have this concept called Triple-B. Y’know what that means?”

I shake my head. “Never heard of it.”

“If a homie got a Triple-B girl, we say that he set for life.”

“Okay,” I say. “What is a Triple-B girl?”

“Bald Black Bitch. B, B, B. That is what Triple-B means, you hear?”

I chuckle, but stop when I see that Derek does not laugh. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, for real.”

“I see,” I say. “What does bald mean? Is it a metaphor for something? Like someone fiery?”

Derek shakes his head. “Nah… bald means bald. Like, no hair on the head, bald.”

“Oh.” I soften my voice. I run my fingers through the length of my ponytail. “So are you saying that you don’t like my hair?”

Derek hesitates. “Well, your hair is beautiful and all, like that golden color it’s got-”

“Derek, you can be straight with me, I don’t mind. Is it my hair that you don’t like? Do you only like bald women?”

Derek sighs. “Look girl, I think you’re a catch the way you are. I consider you Black, cause you seem hella chill towards us. You’re a Bitch, in a good way cause you know how to make a guy all spiced up and shit. But yeah, your hair, like I said it is beautiful, but I… I’m not a fan of hair is all.”

I look down and twiddle my fingers. My hair has always been my pride, particularly more so in the last few years, when I’ve been inadvertently growing it out of neglect. The later years of my marriage were tumultuous, but my growing out my hair has been the best part of it, because it reminded me that I still had a means of expressing myself however I wanted. I think back to my college days, when my hair was longer still. Everyone loved my hair—the guys, the girls, and even some professors commented on it too. My hair has always been a big part of my identity, and here I am, being told that it was the one part of me that it was off-putting.

I laugh at the irony. The irony of the one feature of me that I’ve always loved and treasured being pointed out as the weakest one. I examine the ends of my hair. They are quite dry, and that is no surprise because of how neglectful I’ve been of it. But overall, my hair is in good shape. It has brilliant color, is quite thick, and has a shine to it.

But then a thought appears in my head. I picture myself the way I am, but bald. No hair at all, just a clean-shaven head. I compare the image in my head to the image that I saw in the mirror after dressing into the thrift-store clothes earlier today. When I first saw my reflection, I thought of myself as a slut, as a woman who did not have a shred more of dignity to lose, and the thought excited me. But in comparison, this new image of me bald evoked the quality of slutiness to a much higher extent.

I kept thinking about it, and before I knew it, I couldn’t let go of the idea anymore. The idea of shaving off all my hair. The idea of becoming Derek’s Black Bald Bitch.

“Derek,” I say, “what if I was bald? Would you find me attractive then?”

Derek ponders over it. “Man, if you was bald, I think you’d be the baddest Triple-B there ever was, honest to God.”

“Oh,” I fluster. I was half-hoping that he’d say something else, that he’d insist that my being bald would not change much about me and my appeal to him. But the other half of me that is all excited is brimming with possibility. A dangerous one at that.

I run my fingers through my hair. My loved golden tresses with a red hue that I’ve always loved so much about myself. Everyone around me knows Sarah and her golden locks. The golden locks were what made me me, or at least that was what I thought. Would I be truly free if my happiness always depended on my hair being long? Besides, the idea of me being bald, and a razor clipping through my hair, was now too good to not live out.

“Let’s shave it then.”

Derek turns. “Huh?”

“Derek, shave my head.”

His eyes widen. “No, ain’t no way you’re serious, right? Forget about what I said, man. You got beautiful hair.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m sure of it. I… want to shave my head.”

Derek gets up and shakes his head. ”Hell nah. You wanna just shave your head for me, don’t you? What if you wanna date some white homie later on, huh? They ain’t gonna like no bald woman, dawg.”

I get up. “Fine. If you won’t do it, I will.” I walk towards the bathroom.

Derek hurries after me. “Wait, wait. Okay, let’s talk about this first. If you’re really sure about it, I can do it.”

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“Are you sure about this?” Derek asks.

I’m seated on the bathroom floor. My arms are wrapped around my knees. My thrift top and shorts are still on, but I do not wear a cape. The floor underneath is covered by newspaper, put in place to make the clean up later easier, and also to prevent the hair from accidentally clogging the drain. Or as Derek joked, to clog the drainage of the entire building, with all the hair that would be coming off.

I think again about this. My hair nearly reaches my waist now. It is not super long, but it is longer than most women that I know. I do the calculations in my head. If I were to start from scratch, it would take me around 5-6 years to get back to my current length. 5-6 years is a lot of time. In 5-6 years, Dave would be out of college. In 5-6 years, we may move out of Harlem. In 5-6 years, I might be with another man.

But then I think again of my hair falling down. My locks rolling down my body chunk-by-chunk. There is something invigorating about the thought of me sitting helplessly while all my hair comes rolling down. Knowing that once the first shave is made, there is no going back. I bite my lip. I feel my nipples going hard against the fabric of my top.

I imagine the look of horror on my son’s face when I come out of the room tonight with a bald head, Derek grinning behind me.

“I’m ready.” I raise my head straight up. I become super-aware of my ponytail sitting against my back.

Derek pulls open the drawer and takes out the clipper. It is the clipper that I normally use to shave my armpits and vagina. He also takes out the guard, and adjusts it onto the clipper.

”No,” I say.

“No what?”

“No… guard. Just use the clipper as is.”

Derek smirks. “Dang, you really want to go for the Triple-B look with no compromise, huh?”

I offer a smile, hoping that Derek does not notice the swelling around my eyes.

I feel a tug on the back of my head as Derek pulls my ponytail back and places the clipper at the front of my head. I gasp, as I thought that the shaving would begin from my nape. But I also decide that if I’m doing it, I might as well go all in, and face the clippers head-on.

I feel Derek’s fingers sifting through my hair. “Girl, you really do got some wonderful hair. I think you should think about this once again, dawg. People would kill to have hair like yours.”

Derek’s last line lingers in my head. He is not wrong—many have told me about how envious they are of my locks. I’ve always attributed my hair to being a gift from some higher power, something that I’m undeserving of. Am I doing the right thing by throwing it away?

“D-do it.” My voice cracks.

“Okay then. Let’s begin.”

Derek turns the clipper on, and the mechanical buzz of the clipper fills the room. As the clipper inches closer to my hairline, I’m washed over by a feeling of exhilaration. The clipper makes contact, and I close my eyes.

The first pass is smooth. I feel the clipper across my head, from my forehead to my pate. I feel strands of hair parting in its wake, but not falling, still tied at the back of my head and held by Derek. Derek draws careful lines at first, but when it comes to my sides, he begins making passes in all kinds of directions, and it almost feels like he is only doing it to have fun at my expense.

“You should see yourself in the mirror now,” he says. “You look ridiculous, dawg.”

I laugh and cry. I had been holding myself together till now, but I can’t anymore. Tears begin to roll down my cheeks, and I bury my face in my knees. My hair, which is slowly coming off, is still held at the back by Derek’s steady grip, but he is gentle enough to allow me to bring my head forward.

With every pass, I feel a heaviness lifting from my head. I never thought of my hair, despite its thickness, to be heavy, but it is clearly something that has been there but I didn’t notice, because the difference in weight is apparent. When the final pass is made, I instinctively bring my hand to the back of my head, and gasp at the lack of hair. I turn back, and nearly faint when I see the mass of hair in Derek’s hands.

“I ain’t got no idea of how farming is like, but I feel like a shepherd after giving my sheep their yearly shearing.” He lifts the hair up and down. “Your hair is quite heavy, for real. Wanna hold it?”

I look at the hair held by Derek’s outstretched hands. It looks unrecognizable in the state that’s in. It really does almost look like a roll of wool.

I shake my head. “No… you can keep it. I don’t want to see it again.”

“I understand.” Derek plops the hair onto the toilet seat, and comes over to me. He wraps his hands around me, enclosing me in a warm embrace. “You’re real brave, you know that? What you just did is braver than anything I ever did, except asking you out today.”

I laugh. I wipe the tears from my eyes. I peek at the mirror, but look away immediately. Coming to terms with how I look now is a demon that I want to face later.

I turn towards Derek. “So… am I now a Triple-B?”

Derek puts his hand to his chin. “Let’s see. Black? Check. Bitch? Check. Bald? Check. You a Triple-B now, Daddy-D certified.”

I laugh. “Are you down for round-2? The mattress must have gone cold again by now.”

Derek grins. “You bet.”

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