Bouffant Shave
In the crisp fall of 1962, Tina Hargrove was the undisputed queen of Betty’s Beauty Shop, a lively salon pulsing with the drone of hairdryers and the chatter of women poring over Vogue. Her weekly visits kept her chestnut hair teased into a majestic bubble bouffant, a style that turned heads from Main Street to the county line. Betty’s was the epicenter of local glamour, and Tina, with her radiant smile and fearless flair, was its beating heart. The ’60s favored bold brows, but Tina had already defied that trend—thanks to her husband, Ralph, and his cinematic whims.
It began one rainy night when Ralph, entranced by Jean Harlow’s razor-thin brows in Dinner at Eight, urged Tina to shave hers off. “Paint ’em on, with that big hair—it’ll be stunning,” he’d said. Tina obliged, and for a month, she relished Betty’s razor gliding across her browline, followed by the delicate brush of ink crafting sharp, arched lines. Then came permanence: three months of relentless plucking erased her natural brows, leaving them bald and smooth. Now, during her shampoo, Betty wielded a lighted magnifying glass to hunt stray hairs, plucking them into oblivion. Ralph adored it, and Tina reveled in the ritual’s finality. The look—towering bouffant, ultra-thin painted brows—sparked a frenzy, with women clamoring for “the Tina treatment.”
Her escape from shaving didn’t last. Ralph’s gaze soon settled on her arms, where fine hairs shimmered in the light. “Smooth and bare, Tina,” he mused. At Betty’s, she relayed the request, and Betty devised a plan: “I’ll shave ’em while you’re under the dryer, getting your manicure.” As the dryer hummed and the manicurist polished her nails, Betty’s razor danced over her arms, stripping them to sleek perfection. Ralph was smitten, and Tina, amused by his delight, admired her satin-smooth skin. The salon buzzed anew, arms joining brows in the Tina-inspired wave.
But Ralph’s vision didn’t stop there. One quiet Sunday, as Tina lounged in her robe, he leaned in with a gleam in his eye. “Tina, I’ve been thinking—completely hairless, from the scalp down. Every inch of you, smooth as glass.” He paused, then grinned. “Except that gorgeous bouffant, of course.” Tina blinked, then laughed, her painted brows arching. “You’re full of surprises, Ralph.” Undaunted, she marched to Betty’s the next day, her bouffant bouncing. “Ralph wants me hairless—top to bottom, save the hairdo. Pubic region, butt crack, the works.”
Betty didn’t flinch. “We’ll take it slow and careful,” she said, motioning to her assistant, Clara, a steady-handed young woman with a knack for detail. “Clara’ll handle the shaving while I keep those brows pristine.” The routine expanded: Tina reclined in a private corner of the salon, her bouffant netted and safe, as Clara set to work. With warm water, a soft cloth, and a razor honed to perfection, Clara meticulously shaved Tina’s pubic region, navigating every curve with care. Then, tilting her gently, she cleared the fine hairs from her butt crack, leaving nothing behind. The process was methodical, almost meditative, and Tina found herself oddly soothed by the rhythm—the soft scrape, the cool air on freshly bared skin.
Meanwhile, Betty hovered above, magnifying glass in hand, scanning Tina’s browline for errant stragglers. “Can’t let a single one slip,” she’d mutter, tweezers poised. The dual operation became a weekly dance: Clara’s razor below, Betty’s tweezers above, transforming Tina into Ralph’s vision of sleek, hairless perfection. When it was done, Tina stood, her body a smooth expanse from scalp to sole, crowned by that untouched bouffant—a striking contrast of volume and void.
Ralph was beside himself. “You’re a marvel, Tina,” he’d say, tracing her bare arms, legs, and beyond with awe. She’d catch her reflection—bouffant a chestnut cloud, brows a painted slash, body a flawless canvas—and think, He’s outdone himself this time. At Betty’s, the whispers grew louder. Some women asked for arm shaves, others hinted at more, but none matched Tina’s full plunge. Ralph bragged at the diner, “My Tina’s a masterpiece—smooth as a starlet, head to toe.” And as her influence rippled, Tina Hargrove remained the trailblazer, her every shave reshaping beauty, one bold choice at a time.
By the spring of 1963, Tina Hargrove had become a living legend at Betty’s Beauty Shop, her every visit a spectacle of transformation. Her chestnut bouffant still reigned supreme, a voluminous crown atop a body now entirely hairless from the scalp down—a vision born from her husband Ralph’s relentless imagination. The salon, a hive of hairdryers and gossip, had long adapted to Tina’s whims: her brows, plucked into permanent oblivion and painted with precision; her arms, shaved satin-smooth; her entire form, from pubic region to butt crack, meticulously razored by Betty’s assistant, Clara, while Betty policed her browline with a magnifying glass. Tina was the prototype, the muse, the woman who turned Ralph’s cinematic dreams into Main Street reality.
But Ralph, ever the dreamer, wasn’t done. One humid evening, as the crickets chirped outside their clapboard home, he slid a stack of risqué magazines across the kitchen table. The pages, dog-eared and faintly illicit, featured women in poses that left little to the imagination—each adorned with a subtle, suggestive accessory. “Tina,” he said, his voice low and eager, “I’ve been thinking. A butt plug—training, you know, to open you up, stretch you out. Something different. You could ask Betty about it.” Tina tilted her head, her painted brows arching as she studied his flushed face. She’d never balked at his ideas before, and this, though bold, sparked her curiosity. “Alright, Ralph,” she said with a wry smile. “I’ll see what Betty says.”
The next day, Tina breezed into Betty’s, her bouffant bouncing, and leaned over the counter. “Ralph’s got a new one,” she confided, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Butt plug training—wants me stretched out. Thinks it’s the next step. What do you reckon?” Betty, a woman who’d seen it all, didn’t bat an eye. “Well, Tina, you’ve never been one to shy away,” she said, tapping a pencil against her chin. “We’ll sort it. I’ve got supplies in the back—clean, discreet. And while we’re at it, let’s pair it with something to keep you fresh—hot soapy enemas, right under the dryer. Full service, darling.”
The plan took shape. In a curtained nook at the salon’s rear, Betty and Clara orchestrated Tina’s latest evolution. While Tina sat under the hairdryer, her bouffant netted and her nails freshly lacquered, Clara prepped the enema kit. A basin of warm, soapy water connected to a slender tube rested discreetly beside her. “Relax, now,” Clara murmured, her hands steady as she guided the nozzle, releasing a gentle flow that flushed Tina clean. The heat and rhythm were oddly calming, a counterpoint to the dryer’s hum above. Tina leaned back, unfazed, letting the process unfold as her manicure dried.
Then came the training. Betty emerged with a small, polished case, revealing a series of smooth, tapered plugs—each a step larger than the last. “We’ll start small,” she said, handing the first to Clara. With a dab of lubricant and a practiced touch, Clara eased it into place, Tina’s breath catching briefly before settling into a bemused grin. “Feels strange,” she admitted, shifting slightly, “but I’ll get used to it.” Over weeks, they progressed—each session stretching her further, the plugs swapped under Betty’s watchful eye while Clara shaved her bare and Betty scanned her brows for stragglers.
Ralph noticed the change immediately. “You’re something else, Tina,” he’d marvel, his hands roaming her smooth, altered form. She’d catch her reflection—bouffant a chestnut halo, brows a painted slash, body hairless and now subtly reshaped—and think, He’s taken me somewhere new again. At Betty’s, the whispers grew hushed but curious; no one dared ask outright, though the enema kit and Tina’s serene confidence hinted at secrets. Ralph crowed at the diner, “My Tina’s a pioneer—always ahead of the curve.” And as her story deepened, Tina Hargrove remained the boldest soul on Main Street, her every chapter a testament to Ralph’s vision and her unshakable nerve.
This chapter pushes Tina’s journey into new territory while keeping the tone consistent—playful, bold, and rooted in her dynamic with Ralph and Betty. Let me know if you’d like to adjust or expand further!
By the summer of 1963, Tina Hargrove had become a figure of fascination at Betty’s Beauty Shop, her every transformation a testament to her husband Ralph’s boundless imagination. Her chestnut bouffant still soared, a beacon of ’60s glamour atop a body rendered entirely hairless from scalp to sole. Her brows, long since plucked away, were painted daily with razor-thin precision; her arms, legs, and more intimate regions were shaved smooth by Betty’s assistant, Clara, while Betty policed her browline for stragglers. The salon had adapted to Tina’s evolving routine—hot soapy enemas and butt plug training now woven into her visits under the hairdryer. But Ralph, ever the visionary, had grander plans yet.
One sultry evening, as fireflies blinked outside their modest home, Ralph sat Tina down with a gleam in his eye. “Tina, you’ve taken to the training like a champ,” he said, his voice brimming with pride. “But I’ve been thinking—let’s make it a full-time thing. Enemas twice a day at home: morning while you do your makeup and brows, evening in the tub while you shave for me. Stay plugged all the time—except for the enemas, shaving, or letting ’em out. No more natural movements, just what the enemas bring. Keeps you clean, controlled, just how I picture it.” Tina tilted her head, her painted brows arching. It was a leap, even for her, but Ralph’s fervor was infectious. “Alright,” she said with a half-smile. “Let’s see it through.”
The next day, she returned to Betty’s with a list. Betty, unfazed by the escalation, nodded sagely. “Twice-daily enemas at home? We’ll set you up—kit, instructions, the works. And full-time plugging? You’ll need a system.” She rummaged in the back, emerging with a sturdy enema bag, a coil of tubing, and a selection of plugs sized for comfort and endurance. “Morning and night, you’ll manage fine,” Betty assured her. “But with that much flushing, leaks might happen. We’ll fix that too.”
Tina’s new routine took shape. Each morning, she perched at her vanity, her bouffant netted, painting her brows with a steady hand. Beside her, the enema bag hung from a hook, its warm, soapy contents flowing gently as she blended her makeup. The ritual was oddly soothing—brush in one hand, tube in place, a quiet start to her day. Evenings found her in the tub, razor gliding over her bare skin for Ralph, the enema bag dangling from the shower rod, its second flush cleansing her anew. She stayed plugged at all times otherwise, the smooth taper a constant presence, removed only for shaving, voiding, or the enemas’ release. Natural bowel movements faded into memory, replaced by the induced rhythm Ralph craved.
But control came with challenges. The frequent enemas, while thorough, sometimes left traces—small leaks that threatened her pristine world. Betty had a solution. “Diapers,” she declared, producing a stack of thick, soft cloth squares and a tin of oversized safety pins. “And these—heavy-duty rubber panties. Not for you, Tina, but for the furniture, the clothes. Keeps everything spotless.” Tina, ever pragmatic, agreed. At home, she layered up: the plug snug inside, a bulky diaper pinned tight, and glossy rubber panties stretched overtop, their faint crinkle a quiet reminder of her commitment.
Ralph was ecstatic. “You’re perfect, Tina,” he’d murmur, his hands tracing her smooth, diapered form, marveling at the blend of sleek and structured. She’d catch her reflection—bouffant a chestnut halo, brows a painted slash, body hairless and now padded—and think, He’s built me from scratch. The diapers and rubber panties, though cumbersome, became part of her, a shield for their life together. At Betty’s, the staff whispered less now, awed by her dedication. Ralph boasted at the diner, “My Tina’s a marvel—polished inside and out.” And as her story deepened, Tina Hargrove stood as Main Street’s boldest soul, her every layer a testament to Ralph’s vision and her unwavering resolve.
By the fall of 1963, Tina Hargrove had transcended mere trendsetter status at Betty’s Beauty Shop, her life a canvas for Ralph’s ever-expanding vision. Her chestnut bouffant remained a towering triumph, untouched atop a body stripped of all hair from scalp to sole. Her brows, plucked into oblivion, were painted daily with meticulous care; her form, shaved smooth by Clara, was kept pristine with twice-daily enemas—morning at her vanity, evening in the tub—while a plug stayed in place at all times, save for those rituals. Thick cloth diapers and heavy rubber panties now encased her lower half, a practical shield for furniture and fashion alike. Tina, with her unshakable poise, wore it all like a crown.
But Ralph’s imagination never rested. One crisp October evening, as leaves skittered across their porch, he leaned close, his eyes glinting with a new idea. “Tina, that bald pubic region of yours—it’s perfect, smooth as can be. But I’ve been thinking: rings. Six thick ones per labia, twelve in all, lined up parallel. Something to catch the light, dress you up down there.” Tina paused, her painted brows lifting. It was audacious, even for Ralph, but his enthusiasm sparked her own. “Rings, huh?” she mused, a smile tugging at her lips. “Let’s see what Betty makes of it.”
The next morning, Tina swept into Betty’s, her bouffant gleaming, and relayed Ralph’s latest whim. “Twelve rings—six per side, thick ones, for the labia,” she said, leaning on the counter. Betty, a veteran of Tina’s transformations, didn’t blink. “Piercings, then,” she replied, reaching for a notepad. “We’ll need the right gauge—something sturdy, not too fine. I’d say 10-gauge’ll do, thick enough to hold but not overkill.” She scribbled a quick order, her supplier’s number already dialed in her mind. “I’ll have ’em here by your next visit, Tina. We’ll get you fixed up proper.”
A week later, the rings arrived—twelve gleaming stainless-steel hoops, each a solid 10-gauge, their weight promising permanence. Betty ushered Tina into the salon’s private nook, where Clara stood ready with antiseptic and a steady hand. “Lie back, now,” Betty instructed, her tone calm but firm. Tina reclined, her diaper and rubber panties set aside, her bare, hairless skin exposed under the soft glow of a lamp. Clara swabbed the area with care, marking six even spots along each labia with a fine pen. Betty, wielding a piercing needle, worked with precision—each puncture swift, each ring slipped through and closed with a tiny click. Twelve times the process repeated, the metal settling into place, a symmetrical adornment that gleamed against Tina’s smooth flesh.
Tina barely flinched, her trust in Betty absolute. When it was done, she sat up, the faint jingle of the rings a new sensation as she shifted. “Well, I’ll be,” she said, peering down. “Ralph’ll lose his mind.” Clara re-secured the diaper, the rubber panties sliding overtop, now concealing a secret layer of shine. Betty grinned. “Those’ll hold—strong as you are, Tina. Let’s keep ’em clean, though; daily rinse with the enemas.”
That night, Ralph’s reaction was electric. “Tina, you’re a wonder,” he breathed, his fingers brushing the rubber panties, knowing the treasure beneath. She’d catch her reflection—bouffant a chestnut halo, brows a painted slash, body hairless and now ringed—and think, He’s turned me into art. At Betty’s, the staff marveled quietly, the faint clink of metal a whispered rumor. Ralph bragged at the diner, “My Tina’s one of a kind—decked out top to bottom.” And as her legend grew, Tina Hargrove stood as Main Street’s boldest creation, her every piercing a testament to Ralph’s dreams and her fearless spirit.
By the winter of 1963, Tina Hargrove had become a living masterpiece at Betty’s Beauty Shop, her every feature sculpted to Ralph’s exacting whims. Her chestnut bouffant soared untouched, a ’60s icon crowning a body stripped bare of hair from scalp to sole. Her brows, long gone, were painted daily with razor-thin elegance; her skin, shaved smooth by Clara, gleamed under twice-daily enemas—morning at her vanity, evening in the tub—while a plug remained her constant companion, save for those rituals. Thick diapers and rubber panties encased her lower half, twelve 10-gauge rings adorning her labia beneath, a hidden gleam of Ralph’s design. Tina wore it all with quiet pride, a testament to his relentless creativity.
For months, Ralph had insisted her hairlessness stop at the scalp, preserving that towering bouffant as her signature. But one frosty December night, as snow dusted their windows, he reconsidered. “Tina,” he said, tracing a finger along the base of her neck, “I’ve been wrong about the scalp-down bit. That nape of yours—ear to ear, up to the tips—it’d look sharp shaved bald. Not just clippers, mind you—lather and razor, smooth as glass.” Tina turned, her painted brows arching in surprise. “You sure about this, Ralph? That’s cutting close to the crown jewel.” He nodded, resolute. “It’ll frame the bouffant—make it pop even more.” Intrigued, she shrugged. “Back to Betty’s, then.”
The next day, Tina strode into the salon, her bouffant bouncing, and plopped into Betty’s chair. “Ralph’s changed his tune,” she announced. “Wants my nape shaved bald—ear to ear, up to the ear tips. Lather and razor, not just clippers.” Betty, ever adaptable, tilted Tina’s head to assess the line. “We’ll keep that bouffant safe, don’t you worry,” she said, reaching for her tools. “Clara, fetch the hot towels and cream—this’ll be a proper job.”
Tina leaned forward, her hair netted high to protect the precious volume above. Clara draped a steaming towel across her nape, softening the fine hairs that lingered below the bouffant’s edge. Betty swirled a brush in a tin of shaving cream, lathering the area from ear to ear, stopping precisely at the ear tips’ height. With a steady hand, she drew the razor across, the blade whispering as it stripped the nape bare. Stroke by stroke, the skin emerged smooth and pale, a stark contrast to the chestnut cloud above. Clara wiped away the last traces of foam, and Betty held up a mirror. “Bald as a baby’s,” she declared. Tina ran a hand over the cool, slick surface, grinning. “Ralph’ll flip.”
That evening, Ralph’s eyes lit up as he circled her, fingers grazing the freshly shaved nape. “Tina, it’s perfect—frames that hair like a picture,” he said, marveling at the clean line where bouffant met bare skin. She caught her reflection—hair a voluminous halo, brows a painted slash, nape a smooth expanse—and thought, He’s got an eye, I’ll give him that. The modification settled into her routine: weekly at Betty’s, Clara lathered and shaved the nape while Betty touched up her brows, the razor’s glide a familiar comfort.
Word at the salon stayed hushed; Tina’s nape, though striking, was a subtle shift compared to her rings and diapers. Ralph crowed at the diner, “My Tina’s a cut above—polished every which way.” And as her story unfolded, Tina Hargrove remained Main Street’s boldest soul, her shaved nape a quiet nod to Ralph’s evolving vision and her unwavering trust.
This chapter keeps Tina’s journey dynamic, blending Ralph’s new request with her established look and the salon’s role. Let me know if you’d like any adjustments!
Excellent story, love every bit of it