How to Navigate Marriage When Your Wife Goes Bald

How to Navigate Marriage When Your Wife Goes Bald

By Robert D.

 

Excerpt from The City Beat (May 2025 issue)

 

Before she went to Thailand, my wife Julia was known, first and foremost, for her hair.

Not just by me — by friends, colleagues, the woman behind the fish counter at Whole Foods, our daughter’s piano teacher. Strangers, even. People would stop her at dinner parties, at school fundraisers, in the cereal aisle — to compliment her hair.

“Is that natural?”

“What do you use?”

“You should be in a shampoo commercial.”

Her hair was long, straddling the line between romantic and slightly impractical. A deep, midnight black, naturally straight in that wild, untamed way that seemed like a divine gift rather than the result of any blow-dryer. In certain light, it shimmered with touches of auburn, like a secret only the sun knew. When it was humid, her hair came to life, soft waves and frizz swirling freely, refusing to be tamed. She often complained about it, but even in its unruly state, it was stunning. It fell over her shoulders, cascading down to her hips with an effortless grace that seemed almost otherworldly.

Beside her, whenever someone complimented her, I’d smile with pride and modestly say, “I made a smart choice,” before quietly stepping back — like a husband who is certain that she is the beautiful one in the relationship. Honestly, there were times I’d find myself wondering, Why on earth is she with me? She exudes elegance and charm with her voluptuous figure and stylish demeanor. Meanwhile, I’m a bit shorter than her, sporting glasses that give me the appearance of a librarian overdue for a break, and trying to ignore my gradually receding hairline.

So when she told me one morning — over a bowl of steel-cut oats — that she was going to Thailand for two weeks with a few friends from her meditation group, I pictured a Buddhist retreat: yoga mats, quiet temples, incense smoke curling through the air, maybe a detox that would leave her irritable by day three. I didn’t think much of it. Julia did things like that. Spiritual detours. Silent retreats. Full-moon ceremonies with women named Sage or Priya. She was always looking for something deeper, something more aligned with the universe.

I wasn’t particularly interested in that kind of activity, but I respected it. Truthfully, I considered it somewhat a waste of time. Still, if she felt the need to sit quietly and chant in a temple, that was her choice—someone has to do it. I didn’t question it; I simply nodded, took another spoonful of oats, and added it to the list of Julia’s mysterious, transformative adventures.

One week later, she left wearing loose linen pants and a simple white blouse with thin straps, paired with flat flip-flops. Her bag looked almost too light, as if she were setting off on a journey where the weight of material things no longer mattered, and only the essentials — like peace of mind and spiritual clarity — were worth carrying.

Our eight-year-old daughter Ellie and I dropped her at the airport, hugged her goodbye, and watched her disappear through the security line — her hair, a flowing mass of dark locks, danced joyfully as she turned away, catching the light like a final, confident wave goodbye.

That was the last time I saw her hair.

***

 

Two weeks passed.

Ellie and I managed to hold down the fort — which, in reality, meant eating an unreasonable amount of pasta, forgetting to water the hydrangeas, and pretending the laundry pile was some minimalist Scandinavian project we were just waiting to complete. We missed Julia, of course, but we got by. A minor domestic victory.

She’d been without her phone for most of the retreat — no screens, no signal, no contact — which meant we were in complete digital silence until the night before her return. The connection was faint, crackling in and out like she was calling from the bottom of a well. Somewhere in Chiang Rai, I think she said.

“The retreat was incredible!” she exclaimed, her voice alive with enthusiasm. “Absolutely fantastic. Unusual, but in the most wonderful way. I feel… so free.”

She paused for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully, then said in a casual tone with a playful hint, “You may be a bit surprised when you see me tomorrow… actually, very surprised.”

She let out a quick laugh, like she had just shared a delicious little secret she couldn’t wait for me to discover.

“Oh, sure,” I said over the phone, casually flipping through TV channels with the remote, clearly not phased, “No big deal.”

“Nothing bad. Just… don’t panic, okay?” She was almost whispering now, like it was some top-secret news. “It’s still me. Just… maybe less of me.”

And then, the line dropped.

It was cryptic, sure. But I didn’t worry. Julia was always saying things like that. Usually it meant she was going to give up sugar or a temporary shift in planetary alignment. I figured she’d gotten a henna tattoo and would want me to say it looked profound.

***

 

The flight from Bangkok touched down early the following day. We were still circling the arrivals lane when the text came through: Door C.

My daughter Ellie and I headed straight there, me clutching a slightly wilted bouquet of hydrangeas.

I spotted a few of Julia’s friends from her meditation group right away — women I’d seen in our living room, sipping green tea and speaking in reverent tones about breath, stillness, and the divine power of magnesium. Now they appeared one by one, moving slowly, almost floaty, as if not quite ready to rejoin the rush of regular life. They dressed in flowing cotton tunics in earthy colors, wore sandals, and carried intricately handwoven bags that seemed both costly and ethically made. Their wrists were adorned with beads, likely sourced from some exotic and mystical place.

Their eyes had that faint, sun-stunned glaze — half jet lag, half enlightenment.

And then I saw her.

I recognized her immediately — the way she walked, the posture, the graceful, unhurried pace. She wore the same linen pants and blouse she had when she left, paired with the same flip-flops from a fortnight ago.

The clothes were familiar. The silhouette was not.

I squinted hard, trying to comprehend what was wrong. Something felt disturbingly off.

Was it the lighting playing tricks on my eyes? Had she wrapped her hair in some elaborate scarf? Or maybe she had pinned it back somehow?

Then she stepped fully into view, striding toward us with an air of confidence that only heightened the shock of what I saw.

Her head — bare, smooth, and impossibly clean — gleamed under the terminal lights like a polished stone. No scarf. No, her hair wasn’t pulled back.

Julia was bald. Entirely, unmistakably, shockingly bald.

Even her once thick and prominent eyebrows had vanished. It was as though her face had been gently cleansed and reset.

My fingers tightened around the bouquet of hydrangeas I’d brought.

Next to me, Ellie let out a sharp, involuntary gasp — then immediately clapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes huge, caught somewhere between astonishment and delight.

“Oh my God, Mom,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “What happened to your hair? It’s all… gone!”

Julia smiled — that maddeningly serene smile of hers, as if everything was unfolding exactly as it should.

“I left it behind in Thailand,” she said with a carefree shrug. “Along with my tweezers, my shampoo, and any remaining ties to my ego.”

She hugged Ellie first, of course — pulled her in close, kissed her on the cheeks, and let our daughter’s fingers roam over her shorn scalp like it was some miraculous, off-limits artifact. Ellie giggled, then gasped, then giggled again.

Then Julia turned to me.

I had about ten seconds to prepare, which turned out to be six seconds too many. My brain scrambled through possible greetings like a malfunctioning card reader.

You look amazing seemed insincere — like something you’d say to a friend who’s just tried bangs.

I missed you was true, but wildly insufficient — like sending a postcard after an earthquake and expecting it to fix everything.

You’re bald as a bowling ball was the most accurate and therefore the most dangerous — like pointing out a flaw on the Mona Lisa. It just wasn’t the right moment.

In the end, I smiled and leaned in, pressing my lips gently against hers.

She tasted like airport tea and heat. She smelled faintly of lemongrass and sunscreen. Her skin had taken on a warm bronze glow, but her scalp — newly exposed, shockingly bare — was pale, almost blue-white, like something that had never been meant for daylight.

I pulled back, blinking.

“Wow,” I said, struggling to find the right words. “That’s… a change.”

Julia raised an eyebrow. Or, well, the muscle where her eyebrow used to be. A grin played at her lips, clearly enjoying my disoriented expression.

“It sure is,” she laughed, clearly loving the moment. “I’m a shiny egghead, huh?”

***

 

That evening, Julia’s meditation group hosted a small gathering to welcome back the “pilgrims” from their Thai retreat—a term used without irony, though, thankfully, the event featured more wine than chanting.

The venue was a renovated farmhouse just outside town, the kind with open shelving lined with hand-thrown pottery, beeswax candles flickering on reclaimed wood tables, and a composting station with laminated instructions pinned near the sink. The windows were open, allowing a gentle breeze to carry the soft clinking of wind chimes. Meditation cushions were arranged in a loose circle on the floor, but most guests stood, mingling with glasses of Grüner Veltliner and gluten-free crackers.

The house filled quickly. Guests arrived bearing wild, likely foraged flowers. Conversations floated through the air, touching on the retreat’s experiences: the two daily vegetarian meals delivered to individual bungalows, the pre-dawn wake-up calls, the adherence to the Eight Precepts—including refraining from solid food after midday—and the silence that enveloped the retreat like a second skin.

Julia was at the heart of the scene, her newly shaved head gleaming in the light like a polished cue ball, with her usual calm smile spread across her face. Without her eyebrows, she resembled a character from a sci-fi film—like one of those benevolent aliens who visit Earth to enlighten us about mindfulness, eco-friendly living, and perhaps even fermented foods.

Everyone fawned over her. People embraced her for longer than usual. One woman was even brought to tears. Someone remarked that she appeared “luminous,” and I believe they were sincere. Several individuals even snapped photos with her—with her consent, naturally.

I stood by the fridge, topping up my wine glass more frequently than needed, attempting to wrap my head around the fact that the woman in linen and flip-flops, gently laughing amidst continuous compliments, was still, technically, my wife.

What bothered me — really bothered me, if I’m being honest — wasn’t just that Julia had shaved her head. And her eyebrows.

What bothered me was that she was the only one.

The other women from the group — the ones who’d traveled with her, meditated beside her, supposedly “let go” in unison — were now milling around in their earth-toned linens and ethically sourced beads, sipping Grüner and recounting their spiritual awakenings… with their glossy, shoulder-grazing manes still perfectly intact.

I kept scanning the room, quietly, like a man checking for fire exits — hoping maybe I’d missed something. Maybe someone had lopped off a few inches. Switched to a bob. Even a dramatic bang.

But no. Each of the women’s hairstyles appeared unchanged from before the trip to Thailand. If anything, their hair seemed shinier. Better conditioned. Possibly blow-dried.

Just not Julia.

Of course not. My wife doesn’t do things halfway.

She had to be different.

She had to be the one who went bald for enlightenment.

At some point in the evening, Lydia Sanborn approached as I stood by the kitchen doorway, pretending to be deeply invested in arranging the crackers.

Lydia was the director of the meditation group Julia had been part of for over a year—and one of the women who had traveled with her to Thailand. She had the kind of voice that must have once been louder but now hovered somewhere between a whisper and a mantra—softened by breathwork, polished by silence. Her hair—of course—was long, silver, and impeccably braided down her back.

“I just wanted to tell you,” she said, placing a light hand on my forearm, “how much I admire Julia.”

I nodded, aiming for polite enthusiasm.

“Yes, she seems to be… enjoying herself.”

Lydia smiled with gentle correction.

“No, I mean I truly admire her. What she did—what she let go of—was extraordinary.”

She told me it had been her idea to bring up the practice. In some Thai monasteries, she explained, women are allowed to temporarily ordain as nuns—they shave their heads, wear robes, go barefoot, follow monastic rules, live simply.

“I mentioned it to the group,” she said. “A few women were intrigued at first. But once they realized it meant actually shaving their heads… well, they politely declined. I wasn’t surprised.”

She tilted her head, watching Julia across the room.

“But Julia—” Lydia said, her voice low and even. “We had a long conversation one morning after meditation. She told me she wanted to do it—the ordination, the whole experience.”

“I asked if she understood what it meant,” Lydia continued, still watching Julia like she was the sun rising over a mountaintop. “And she just nodded. Said yes, very simply. Like she’d already made peace with it.”

She smiled softly, the way people smile when they talk about miracles or really good figs.

“We accompanied her to the temple,” Lydia said, her voice softening as if the memory itself carried weight. “She took the vows. Then she knelt, and the nuns shaved her head — eyebrows included. She cried, quietly, the whole time. It was so tender, so raw. Like watching someone completely rewrite themselves, right before your eyes. She fully became a temporary nun.”

Lydia’s voice lowered in awe as she turned to me, almost forgetting I was there.

“Julia truly embodied the very essence of that place with an intensity the rest of us could only dream of achieving,” Lydia’s voice trembled with reverence. “She threw herself into the toughest tasks with relentless fervor—cleaning, cooking, dedicating herself entirely. And then, she would step out into the street, barefoot, receiving food offerings from the local community. Always in her robe, her head shaved clean—like a true Maechi. It was… awe-inspiring to witness. While the rest of us were preoccupied with meditation, study, and indulging in our small comforts—like the luxury of free time, the ease of shopping, the privilege of wearing shoes—none of that was for her. Julia was serving tirelessly, living every vow she had taken with unyielding devotion. You must be overwhelmingly proud of her.”

I forced a smile as I listened to that — the kind that felt more like jaw management than genuine emotion.

“Yes,” I said, my voice thick with effort. “Quite something.”

Lydia nodded slowly, a little too thoughtfully for my taste.

I glanced at the ice pick on the kitchen counter, next to a solitary cube of ice, and for a split second, the thought of it — sharp, simple — was oddly comforting.

And, if I’m being honest, I briefly entertained the idea of gently lodging it in her heart — with mindfulness, of course — for planting those little seeds in my wife’s now freshly shaven head.

***

 

You might have thought — and I certainly did — Well, hair grows back.

Just wait. Give it time. A few months, maybe a year, and Julia will come back to herself.

To me.

It’ll take a while, sure. But eventually, her hair will return.

Only, she won’t.

That version of her — the one with the thick, dark mane and the world’s most sociable eyebrows — wasn’t coming back.

She’d left it all behind in Thailand.

The next morning, I woke up, the bed beside me empty.

The sun had barely risen, a thin strip of light glowing under the bathroom door. I heard a soft hum, followed by the occasional splash of water. At first, I thought she was just brushing her teeth or perhaps checking her earringless ears in the mirror.

But when I approached and nudged the door open, what I saw froze me in place.

There was Julia — standing at the sink in a white towel, her scalp generously lathered in shaving foam, one of my razors poised just above her temple.

She caught my reflection in the mirror and smiled, completely at ease.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I took one of yours.”

Then she added, as casually as someone mentioning almond milk,

“I really need to get my own — I’ll stop by the store after work,” she said, calmly dragging the razor across her scalp like this was just another Tuesday. “Do you think those Gillette Labs ones are actually worth it? I wonder if they make razors specifically for the head.”

I opened my mouth — possibly to make a joke, possibly to scream into a towel — but nothing of value came out. Just air and confusion.

I backed slowly out of the bathroom, unsure whether I was supposed to offer to shave the back of her head, or if that would just make things weirder.

I must admit that I’m not exactly blessed in the follicular department. My receding hairline has been staging a slow but deliberate retreat, like it’s trying to leave the country without me. To combat this, I’ve amassed an arsenal of shampoos, each more promising than the last, fortified with caffeine, ginseng, and what I can only assume is powdered hope. I massage my scalp like I’m trying to coax life from a withered plant. Julia once caught me holding a bottle up to the light, squinting at it like I was conducting a lab experiment, and asked if I was analyzing it for rare minerals.

Meanwhile, Julia? Well, she just went ahead and shaved everything off. Voluntarily. Cheerfully. Eyebrows included. No hesitation, no remorse, just pure bald confidence.

Is this really where I am? Desperately trying to preserve the last remnants of my hair, while my wife is out there, winning life with a smooth, shiny dome? I’m practically holding a candlelight vigil for my hair, and she’s over there, bald, bold, and living her best life, completely unbothered.

***

 

It was around this time that I began my campaign to convince Julia to grow her hair back. I missed the dark-haired woman with the Italian mane — the one whose hair cascaded like it was auditioning for a shampoo commercial. I mean, for God’s sake, I didn’t want to be married to a thumb!

Every time she mentioned something negative about her bald head, I pounced on it like a man stranded on a desert island who’d just spotted a ship. Ah, I thought, this is it. Time to gently nudge her back to reality — where hair, big, beautiful, and voluminous hair, was not only an accessory but a basic human right.

“Do I look fat in these pants?” she asked once, her voice almost casual, but I could hear the hint of self-doubt creeping in. She stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the waistband of her pants, a slight frown forming as she turned from side to side. “Or is it just my bald head?”

I didn’t miss a beat.

“Definitely the head. Throws off the proportions. Makes everything else look… larger by comparison.”

“You’re not helping,” she muttered.

“Just offering objective feedback,” I said, smiling like a man with nothing to hide and everything to gain.

She rolled her eyes and walked away. But I filed it under small victory. The campaign continues.

 

 

On another day, she sat next to me on the couch, scrolling through Instagram on her phone. Her bare feet were resting comfortably on my lap, a cup of turmeric tea in hand, while I rubbed her soles absentmindedly.

Then, out of nowhere, she let out a quiet “huh.”

That sound. The polite, mildly disappointed kind. Like a librarian discovering you’ve dog-eared a page.

“Someone just asked if I’m having a breakdown,” she said, glancing up at me, as if it was just another Tuesday. “Or if I’m sick.”

I didn’t respond right away. Mostly because, at some point, I had, in fact, quietly entertained both possibilities.

She kept scrolling.

“Here’s another one: You look like a drag queen.”

She paused, looking at the screen like it had personally offended her.

She set the phone down, then turned to me.

“Why do people say things like that?”

I shrugged, trying to sound neutral.

“I mean… the internet?”

“No, but really.” She remarked, her expression calm but thoughtful. “Why does a woman shaving her head trigger so much drama? I didn’t join a cult… I just stopped having hair.”

She had a point. A very calm, beautifully bald point.

“I guess people aren’t used to it. It’s a big change. They don’t know how to process it,” I mumbled.

What I didn’t admit: I was also guilty of those thoughts. Sometimes, I’d find myself viewing her from an odd perspective and imagining my wife had been replaced by a thumb.

She lifted her tea and took a leisurely sip before placing it back down with a sigh while I kept kneading her soles and toes.

“Everyone’s allowed to have opinions. But basic respect should come standard.”

I nodded, sincerely, while also quietly wondering how I’d become the guy who needed to be reminded of this by his glowing, eyebrowless wife.

Then she turned to me with that slight smirk, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Be honest. Do I look like a drag queen?”

“Well,” I said, sipping my coffee very seriously, “you’re tall.”

She tilted her head.

“And…?”

“You’re statuesque.”

She raised an imaginary eyebrow.

“And…?”

“And you have big feet,” I said with a smile, giving them a playful slap.

She gasped — the kind of gasp reserved for terrible confessions or grand betrayals. Then, without missing a beat, she grabbed the nearest cushion and threw it at my face.

 

 

To my absolute astonishment, I found an unexpected ally in this noble crusade: Cynthia, my mother-in-law.

Our shared interests were usually as limited as the air we breathed, our mutual love for Julia (expressed in vastly different and often incompatible ways), and a penchant for disagreeing on nearly every other topic.

We went to her house for lunch on Sunday with Ellie, as we did most weekends. But the moment she laid eyes on Julia after the retreat—hairless, yet radiating an unexpected joy—something inside her shifted.

However, the instant she laid eyes on Julia after the retreat—hairless and radiating joy—something inside her shifted.

She scanned Julia from head to toe, her lips tightening into a thoughtful line before she spoke.

“Julia, darling… why?”

Her voice was a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment.

Julia blinked, genuinely confused.

“Why what?”

“The head, sweetie.” She gestured vaguely around Julia’s scalp, like she was mapping out the lost city of Atlantis. “You had such lovely hair. Remember? You looked like a Disney princess who’d taken an anthropology degree.”

I stood to the side, quietly glowing with pride at how my wife was being so well received. At last, someone was telling her the truth — and it wasn’t even me for once.

Julia smiled politely.

“Oh, Mom, it’s just hair. I love it this way. I’m keeping it for now.”

My mother-in-law tilted her head.

“But the eyebrows too? Really?”

Julia’s mother leaned in, as if about to share a deeply personal secret, completely ignoring all social boundaries — the way only lifelong matriarchs can.

“Well, just let me know when you come to your senses… and maybe find your dignity,” she added with a smile that was dripping with maternal concern and a heavy dose of judgment.

Later, I caught Cynthia whispering to me in the kitchen, stirring her tea like it owed her money.

“Oh, Robert, please do something,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes narrowing as she assessed Julia from across the room. “She looks like a thumb.”

I nodded solemnly, as though I were in the middle of some existential debate.

“Yes, you see it too. You’re not wrong. It’s all I can see now. The Thumb of Enlightenment.”

“And the eyebrows,” she muttered, her gaze now laser-focused on Julia. “Where did they go? She used to have such… expressive brows.”

I didn’t dare laugh out loud, though inside, I was giving her a standing ovation. Finally, we were united. Not by our politics, or our questionable taste in furniture, but by one sacred, shared conviction:

The hair needed to come back.

***

 

Plans, as we all know, have a tendency to go awry — as if life itself finds joy in tossing unexpected twists into the mix.

It was at Mia’s birthday party, one of Ellie’s schoolmates. The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden light over the garden. The air was thick with laughter and the hum of distant conversations. The freshly mowed grass crunched underfoot, while the smell of barbecue blended with the earthy scent of blooming flowers.

Ellie went off to play with the other girls, and Julia and I lingered by the food table. She was dressed in a plain grey tracksuit, choosing comfort over style, with cheap flip-flops that made no attempt to make a statement. It was just a casual birthday gathering, so there was no need for anything more.

Soon enough, Julia slipped off her flip-flops, leaving them behind on the grass, as though they no longer belonged in her effortless, carefree world. Barefoot, she moved across the lawn, joining a group of moms sitting in a loose circle.

The other women welcomed her with beaming smiles, their eyes twinkling with genuine warmth and acceptance. They included her in their lively chatter, seamlessly engaging her in conversation as if there was nothing out of the ordinary. Their voices mingled like a harmonious symphony, utterly unfazed by her bald head, which seemed to be just another part of their shared story.

I stood there, feeling a little detached from everything around me. My mind couldn’t help but wander back to the Julia I used to know — the one with the long, dark hair that cascaded down her back, before all the meditation retreats, yoga, and minimalist philosophy had come into play. The one who always dressed with an effortless elegance, even when it wasn’t necessary. She had a way of making simple outfits look stylish, of turning a plain dress into something extraordinary. Now, here she was, minimalistic and calm, in a simple grey tracksuit, her bare feet touching the grass, and her smooth, bald head gleaming under the sunlight.

“Do you know Julia?”

I spun around, surprised, pulled from my reverie by a petite woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes. She wore a floral dress and heels that tapped briskly on the garden tiles, exuding a strong Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy vibe.

“Hmm?” I blinked, a little thrown off, my brain still tangled in confusion.

She gestured towards Julia, who was chatting effortlessly with the other moms, as if she were the sun and they were orbiting her.

“You were talking to her,” the woman observed, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh, yes, well… she’s… my wife,” I said, the words coming out awkwardly, as if I was overcompensating, trying to remind myself, and maybe her, that I knew exactly who she was — my wife, right?

The woman paused, her gaze lingering on Julia for a moment before she spoke again, her tone almost nostalgic.

“How lucky you are,” she said with a soft smile, her voice almost reverent.

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely curious, though I was already getting a sinking feeling that this conversation was about to head in a direction I wasn’t prepared for.

“To be married to a woman like that,” she continued, her voice dropping into a tone that was equal parts awe and envy. “Julia’s completely herself. She’s just… so comfortable in her own skin. I envy her confidence.”

I shifted, unsure whether I was supposed to take this as a compliment or a comment on my life choices. All I could really think was: Envy? She has no hair! She looks like a Buddhist monk who got lost on the way to a beauty pageant!

I smiled awkwardly, the kind of smile you give when you’re standing in front of a mirror, trying to act like you know exactly what’s going on but inside, you’re a mess of confusion and self-doubt.

“Uh, yeah, she’s… very confident.”

I nodded, pretending to be as enlightened as she apparently was. In my head, though, I was running a mental checklist of things I didn’t want to think about — like how weird all this was, how different Julia looked, and whether or not I should be congratulating myself for marrying such a “bold” woman.

I muttered a quick excuse as I stepped away. My mind was still scrambling to process the conversation I’d just had. I made my way into the house, turned toward the fridge, and grabbed a cold beer. The cool bottle in my hand was a small comfort, but the tension in my shoulders wouldn’t quite ease. It felt like I needed something to ground myself after that unexpected exchange.

As I straightened up, I nearly bumped into a guy with a beard and glasses.

He flashed me a warm, disarming smile and extended his hand.

“I’m Carl, Mia’s dad. Mia and Ellie are best friends,” he introduced himself, sounding friendly and unassuming.

I shook his hand, trying to maintain my composure. We went through the usual small talk—discussing the party, the weather, the kids. I nodded along, but my thoughts kept wandering back to the conversation about Julia.

Then, almost casually, he said something that made me stop in my tracks.

“I’ve met your wife before. She’s an incredible woman.”

“My wife?” I asked, frowning slightly, trying to keep my tone nonchalant even though my stomach twisted.

“Yes,” he replied. “Julia, right? The one with the shaved head?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s her,” I responded, attempting to sound casual, though it unsettled me that people recognized her mainly for her bald head.

The man paused, clearly surprised, then continued.

“She’s really remarkable,” he said, his tone now genuinely warm. “We’ve talked about mindfulness and all that. She’s so knowledgeable. I’ve been into wellness myself—mostly through podcasts—but she’s on another level. Didn’t she attend a retreat in Thailand?”

I nodded stiffly, trying to regain my footing, though my mind was still reeling. This was becoming something I wasn’t prepared for.

“She’s got this… presence,” he added, his admiration evident. “And the shaved head? It totally works. It’s kind of hot.”

I blinked, still processing, as if I’d just been handed a math problem in a foreign language.

“Hot?” I repeated, more to myself than to him. “You mean… really? Hot?”

“Oh, no offense!” Carl quickly added, looking slightly embarrassed, like he had just made a faux pas by commenting on someone’s wardrobe. “Yeah, hot. It’s bold. It’s confident. Honestly, I think it suits her.”

I stood there, frozen for a moment, trying to figure out if I was supposed to agree with him or just run screaming into the garden. Because hot and bald had never really been two words I associated with each other — let alone with my wife.

After he departed, I remained there, pondering the discussion with the woman who had Reese Witherspoon’s charisma and remembering my conversation with Mia’s father, which left me feeling a bit lost. Everyone I spoke with — Lydia Sanborn, Mia’s father — seemed to view Julia as a confident and empowered woman, believing her baldness was a reflection of her self-assurance, something that distinguished her positively.

I thought I knew my wife. I thought I had her all figured out. She was the woman who—I assumed—wasn’t comfortable unless everything about her was perfectly put together. But the truth was, she was the woman who didn’t give a damn. It was me who cared, probably to compensate for my own insecurities.

She was always at peace with who she was, and that, apparently, was exactly what people were drawn to.

There was something incredibly magnetic about how she shed all those outward expectations—her hair, her eyebrows—and in doing so, she began to shine in a way I hadn’t anticipated. She had embraced this change with a grace that made it look effortless, while I was still clinging to the past, holding onto versions of her—and myself—that no longer fit.

Maybe it was time for me to accept that Julia had evolved, and in turn, maybe it was time for me to evolve too. To stop resisting, to stop holding onto what was comfortable and familiar, and start embracing what was real.

When I returned to the garden, the warm breeze caressing my face, I couldn’t resist looking over at Julia. She was in the middle of a small circle of moms, speaking energetically, her hands moving expressively. Her laughter resonated around her, and the other women were listening intently, obviously captivated by her words.

Slowly, still sorting through the jumble of thoughts in my head, I walked toward her. As I approached, she looked up and caught my gaze. Her face immediately lit up, her browless eyes, soft and bright with that familiar warmth.

“Hi, I’m Rob,” I said, gesturing toward the other women with a grin, my voice dripping with the perfect amount of sarcasm. “I’m married to this bald lady here.” I paused, letting the awkwardness hang in the air for a beat, then added, “Just making sure she doesn’t blind you all with that shiny dome of hers.”

“Rob,” Julia swatted my arm playfully, but her eyes—those damn eyes—told me she didn’t mind one bit.

The women burst into laughter, and I couldn’t help but smile like a guy who was just a little bit too pleased with himself. Julia rolled her eyes, but there it was—again—that soft, familiar warmth in her smile. She was at ease, completely comfortable with herself, and I… Well, I was still navigating how to converse without stumbling over my words, somewhat awkward but fully engaged, embracing, perhaps for the first time, this version of her.

***

 

So here we are now.

Julia may not possess the type of beauty that adorns magazine covers, and she definitely wouldn’t be featured in a shampoo advertisement. But you know what? She’s something better, something more genuine, something quieter. A beauty that doesn’t need validation. Honestly, it’s a little intimidating.

And now, I have a bald wife.

A beautiful, completely unbothered bald wife — who meditates before breakfast, walks barefoot around the house like she’s in some kind of ethereal zen space, and drinks turmeric tea with that look of someone who’s just too good for the world. Frankly, sometimes it’s a little much for me. I mean, who even enjoys turmeric tea?

So what do you do when your wife shaves her head?

Well, you let her rest her head in your lap and pet it like she’s a cherished cat. Not because it’s a romantic gesture (though I guess it could be), but because, honestly, rubbing her bald head just feels… soothing.

Then, when she asks you to shave it for her, you do it. She sits on the bathroom stool, wraps a towel around her shoulders, hands you the razor, and you do your thing. Spread the foam, pass the razor, treating it like some kind of ritual, a moment that’s just between you two.

The irony? I’m the one complaining when she doesn’t shave. “Honey,” I’ll grumble, “you didn’t shave today? Come on, you’ve got to go smooth. Don’t forget the eyebrows. I want you all clean and shiny.”

It’s absurd, right? But somehow, here I am. This is who I’ve become.

Oh, you’re curious about the “thumb phase”? It actually turned out to be more than just a phase. Honestly, I’m completely okay with it now. I affectionately refer to her as Miss Thumb, and it always makes her laugh.

I just love her just the way she is.

Hair? On Julia? Please, don’t be ridiculous.