For Him?

She looked down at the pile of hair that had been on her head just minutes ago, strands scattered on the floor like remnants of a past self. Her scalp felt strangely light, almost foreign to her now. The barber wiped his hands, then reached for the bowl of shaving foam and the soft-bristled brush. She caught his movement in the mirror, the sight both unnerving and strangely inevitable.

As he approached, the cool air of the shop brushed against her exposed skin. This was it—the final step. The sound of the brush swirling in the foam seemed to echo in the stillness, a quiet prelude to her transformation.

Was this what her husband had been hinting at all along? The thought swirled in her mind, almost as thick as the shaving foam the barber was preparing. Did he really want a hairless woman for a wife? The videos she’d stumbled upon on his laptop certainly pointed in that direction—images of smooth, bald women, admired for their bare beauty. But had she been presumptuous?

Maybe this was something he only fantasized about but never truly desired in reality. Or was it? She wasn’t sure anymore, her doubts growing as fast as the pile of her hair on the floor had grown. Her reflection stared back at her, vulnerable, caught between the need for approval and the uncertainty of what he truly wanted.

Her hair had been deep black, so dark it almost gleamed blue in the light. Now, all that remained was a shadow—a dark blue stubble that clung to her scalp like a lingering echo of her former self. As she watched the barber swirl the shaving foam, she wondered if that shadow would still be there once the razor had done its work. Would it show that her head was shaved to just skin, or would it betray the process, revealing that she wasn’t born this way but chosen to adopt this look?

She could already imagine the feeling of that bare scalp, smooth and exposed to the world. All she had to do was wear it proudly, show her husband that this was a choice she made, and that it had been for him. But what if he rejected her? What if, in her eagerness to please, she had gone too far?

It was too late to turn back now. The pile of hair at her feet was proof of that. But she wondered—would she look better with a soft five o’clock shadow, a hint of strength and defiance, than she had with her head full of long black silk like strands? Would her husband see beauty in this boldness, or had she misunderstood everything?

Before her mind had a chance to clear, she felt the warm, wet sensation of shaving foam being applied to her scalp. The barber’s skilled hands had coated her head in a thick cap of white, and the gleaming razor caught the light for just a moment before it descended, poised at her forehead. She barely had time to brace herself before the blade made its slow, deliberate path backward. It was an irreversible act, stripping away the last remnants of her hair to reveal bare skin—whiter and smoother than she had imagined.

With a second and third pass, any lingering doubt evaporated. She was truly going to be bald. The mirror in front of her confirmed it; there was no turning back now. She stared at the exposed skin, smooth and freshly shaven, and wondered if she would ever look as perfect as the women she had seen in all those pictures and videos. The women her husband seemed to admire—would she measure up to that standard?

A fleeting thought crossed her mind. Maybe she should have set up a camera, let him watch this transformation as it happened. Maybe it would have shown him just how much she was willing to change, to become the woman she thought he wanted. But there was no camera now, only the reflection in the mirror and the hope that when he saw her, he would see what she had tried to become for him. All she could do was hope—hope that her new, smooth head would be everything he desired.

It took as many as five careful returns with the razor to achieve the look and feel the barber wanted for her head and that she had demanded he create—a smooth, gleaming surface, free from any remaining stubble, any blemishes. He had to work meticulously to avoid causing razor burn, but in the end, he wiped away the last traces of foam, stepping back to admire his work. He smiled, though there was a touch of sadness in his eyes.

The barber had shaved many heads over the years, even some belonging to women, but never had he worked on someone as beautiful, with such lustrous, rich black hair. He had begged her, more than once, to reconsider. He couldn’t bear the thought of stripping away such stunning locks, but she had insisted from the moment she sat down. There was no swaying her determination.

He had taken his time, giving her opportunities to change her mind. Each snip of the scissors, each careful stage as her long locks fell to the floor, had been a moment where she could have said “stop.” But she hadn’t. She had met his eyes in the mirror and nodded, telling him to go all the way. She didn’t just want a haircut; she wanted to be bald—completely bald.

The transformation was now complete. Her scalp shone under the shop’s lights, smooth and pristine. She wanted this, she had told him. She wanted to become a bald woman, and now she was.

Yet, despite the smoothness of her scalp and the finality of the shave, the weight of her decision still pressed heavily on her. What had been done was now a fait accompli, irreversible. No amount of second-guessing could change the reality of the situation. Soon, she would have to face the frightening moment when she looked into her husband’s eyes and saw—what? Approval? Disdain? She couldn’t predict his reaction, and that uncertainty gnawed at her.

How long would it be before her hair grew back enough to be considered feminine again, if that’s what he preferred? Or would he insist that she remain bald, perhaps for the rest of her life? The thought sent a shiver down her bare neck. What if he loved this new version of her so much that he demanded she keep it? Would he shave her head every day, the same way the barber had, with the same precision and care? Or, worse, would he expect her to do it herself, to take on the daily ritual of keeping her head smooth and bare?

Her heart raced at the possibilities, her mind swimming in an uncertain future that she had never fully considered. But deep down, she knew she couldn’t linger here forever, safe in the barber’s chair, hiding from the consequences of her decision. She had to stand up, had to leave the shop, had to face him. There was no turning back.

With a deep breath, she rose from the chair, running her hand over her scalp one last time. It was smoother than she had imagined, foreign yet oddly empowering. But the next step wasn’t about power or control—it was about facing her husband and whatever came next.

She stood in their bedroom, her heart pounding as she waited for the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. Every second felt like an eternity. The door was closed, something unusual enough that he paused when he reached the top, puzzled.

“Why’s the door closed?” he called out, his voice laced with curiosity.

Her throat tightened. “I… I cut my hair,” she replied, her voice small, trying to sound casual but betraying the tension inside her.

“How short?” he asked, a hint of concern now creeping in.

“Short,” she said, her fingers brushing her bare scalp instinctively.

“How short?” he asked again, more insistent this time.

“Very short,” she answered, her voice wavering. “Very, very short.”

A pause. Then, “Can I see?”

He reached for the doorknob, but before he could turn it, she spoke softly, the words almost catching in her throat. “My head is shaved… bald. Completely smooth and bald. I have no hair anymore except for my eyelashes and eyebrows.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as she waited, her pulse quickening. She watched the door slowly creak open, the light from the stairwell creeping across the floor until it reached her feet. The moment felt suspended, and all she could do was stand still as his shadow, tall and steady, fell into the room.

There he was, the man she loved so deeply, now only a silhouette in the doorway. She couldn’t see his face yet, but she could feel his presence—the weight of his gaze, the tension of the unknown stretching between them. She fought the urge to cover her head, to hide, but it was too late now. She had to face whatever was coming.

They say dreams last only a few seconds, yet within those fleeting moments, entire lifetimes seem to unfold. She sat up with a jolt in her narrow single bed, the sheets clinging to her as if to pull her back into sleep. Her heart raced, though she wasn’t sure why. The red glow of the alarm clock read something after three in the morning, casting a faint light into the quiet room.

Outside, the muffled hum of light traffic drifted up from the streets below, the only sign that the city never truly slept. She reached for her glass of water on the nightstand, her hand trembling slightly, and took a slow sip. As she brought the glass down, she absently brushed a few strands of her long hair behind her ear, the familiar weight of it comforting against her skin.

That dream… what was it about?

The details were already slipping away, dissolving into the fog of forgetfulness that comes with waking. She could still grasp fragments—something about cutting her hair, about facing someone. But the urgency, the fear, and the strange sense of finality in the dream had left her. What had felt so vivid, so real just moments ago, now felt distant and unreachable, like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands.

She shook her head softly, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. She knew that by morning, it would likely be gone completely, just another forgotten reverie of the night. Still, the lingering feeling of unease clung to her like the early shadows of dawn.

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