I Think it’s Contagious!
A true story.
As many of you know, who follow my writings here, I had recently gone all the way, and had my head shaved completely bald. As a woman, even as a lesbian, that’s a pretty big leap. I’ve shared with you my various experiences, starting with that first big clip as a member of an all-boys baseball team, in my youth.
Shaving my head has been such a powerful experience, as a person with a distinct hair-cutting fetish, that I have been unable to let it go. Initially, I had my head shaved at my local barbershop, but my partner, who for these stories I have and will continue to refer to as Terry, seemed willing to shave it for me for a while.
This suddenly stopped a while ago, and I worried that she might be getting tired of the look. So, as any good lover would do, I let go of the idea of keeping my head shaved smooth. As the stubble grew in, and the incessant itching finally subsided, I was once again sporting a longish crew cut.
This was all well and good until Terry said something over supper. “Why did you stop shaving your head?” It honestly hadn’t come up before, so I would have thought the answer was obvious to her.
“I stopped because you said you didn’t want to shave me anymore,” I replied, getting the raised eyebrows that usually meant a disagreement was about to ensue.
“I never said I didn’t like it shaved. I just didn’t want to be the one doing it.” Terry insisted. I remember during one of the last times she had wielded the razor, she nicked me, ever so slightly, but I bled like a stuck pig.
“Are you talking about the nick, babe?” I asked.
“It sort of freaked me out.” She took our plates and rinsed them in the sink, so I followed with the rest.
“Look, it can happen. Even barbers nick people every once in a while. That’s why they have styptic pencils.” I reasoned.
“Styptic pencil. It’s just Alum.” I explained.
“Alum? You mean the stuff my mom used when she put up vegetables in the fall?” Terry asked. She is the consummate country girl, and I love her for that, but I had never heard of using Alum in food.
“I never heard of that,” I said, honestly.
“Yup.” And with that, she pulled out a small jar of McCormick’s Alum, from the pantry.
“Well, that’s good to know, in case I ever cut myself.” I joked. “So, is it that you don’t mind me shaving my head, or did you actually like it?” Getting back to the subject at hand.
“I don’t want to influence your decision, Claire.” She returned.
“Oh, come on. Did you or didn’t you like it? You can tell me.” I assured her. She frowned. “I promise I won’t be offended, no matter what your answer is.”
The frown turned to a mischievous smile. “Liked.”
“Really?” I queried, amusingly annoyed that I had gone through that whole growing-out period.
“Actually, I kind of love how it feels. Especially when you go down on me.” Terry grinned.
Now, my partner and I aren’t prudes, by any stretch of the imagination, but we rarely talked about anything that happened in the bedroom after the fact. I think my jaw dropped a little, but I couldn’t help but remember the sensation of her rubbing her fingertips over my head as I, well, pleased her.
(I know some of you that are familiar with my work are saying, what the hell is wrong with Claire, beating around the proverbial bush, as it were. Remember that this is my actual life, not fiction.)
So, that was that. The following morning, I made my way down to Hebb’s Barbershop.
“Hi, Claire. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you again.” He joked, as he finished up a gentleman in his chair. It had been a couple of months since I was in, to be fair.
I nodded my greeting and took a number, taking a seat next to a mother and her obviously nervous son. His hair was on the longish side, and I could clearly see he wasn’t thrilled about being there. Then his mother made a comment that had me laughing inside.
“You see. If a lady can get a crewcut, then you can too.” Both Hebb and I looked at each other, sharing a smile.
“It’s not that bad, kid.” I mused, humoring the mother. “It kind of grows on you.” Then everyone laughed, including the boy, albeit reticently.
I watched as the young lad had his mullet skinned down to a respectable buzz cut. As standoffish as he had been, he was just as equally enthusiastic afterward, running his hands over the stubble as they exited the shop.
“So, you let the chrome dome go, I see.” Hebb mused, running his fingers through the half-inch of scruff.
“I did for a while, but I kinda liked it smooth, Hebb,” I informed him.
“So, just to be clear…”
“Shave it,” I interjected. “Smooth as last time.”
He chuckled, as he picked up the fancy gold trimmers and wasted little time, running them straight down the middle. Now, not to glaze over a nice head shave, which it was, btw, but this is not about me. It’s about Terry.
Now, You all must know how much I love the feeling of my own smooth scalp. It’s one thing to write about it all the time, it is quite another to feel it, on your own head. Needless to say, it is hard not to get wet, especially when it’s fresh.
Terry was pleased that I had gone back to being a ‘baldie’ as she liked to call me. To be quite honest, our lovemaking was suddenly rejuvenated, and I really began to believe what she had said about liking ‘it’.
It was about a week later that I noticed a flyer on the table, in and amongst some other paperwork. Everyone’s heard of St. Baldricks, at least on this site, but I was surprised to see it. She couldn’t possibly have picked it up for me, they’d be wasting their time. That’s when I noticed that the paperwork was actually a list of pledges. And, guess who’s name was at the top; Terry’s.
I just sort of stood there, staring at the thing for a while, not really certain how I felt about it. Now, while I’m all about having little to no hair, Terry has always been meticulous about her own. It wasn’t overly long, coming to just over her shoulders. I just couldn’t imagine her parting with it, especially in such drastic fashion, like one of these public shaving events.
It was a good hour or so before she got home from work, so I pretended to ignore it, at least for now. I was in my study, writing (go figure, lol) when she came home. I heard a few terse words spoken and the shuffling of papers. It was then that I knew that I was not supposed to know.
“Claire, honey. Did you see any paperwork on the kitchen table?” She asked, obviously nervous.
“I didn’t notice anything, sorry.” I can fib with the best of them, so she believed me. “Was it anything important?”
“Not really. I probably misplaced it. It’ll turn up.” She lied.
“You want me to help you look for it?” I prodded, knowing she would decline.
“No, you’ve got that deadline coming up. Don’t worry about it. They’ll turn up.” She continued through the kitchen and up the stairs.
‘So, my adorable blonde wife was going to have her head shaved,’ I mused. Aside from the fact that it was for a great cause, I was beginning to imagine her shaved, and it did more than stir things up down below.
Of course, I knew precisely when and where this event was taking place. There was a list of participants on the website they had set up, so I wasn’t surprised to find Terry’s name and a photo posted on the site. She was one of three local women who were shedding their hair that day.
I continued the charade, although I noticed that Terry was growing more and more skittish as the day approached. “Is everything alright?” I asked, thinking it would be odd for me not to.
“Yes. It’s just crazy at work right now. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” I couldn’t help but hear the irony of that statement, knowing as she did, that most of what was on that mind was about to be removed.
Finally, the big day arrived. It was the Saturday before St. Patrick’s Day and I had to laugh at the state Terry seemed to be in. I couldn’t let her suffer a moment longer. Just as I was about to spill the beans and tell her that I knew all about it, a thought came barreling down from above. “What if she’s doing this as a surprise for me?”
Terry knows all about the stories I write for this site, and for how long I’ve been doing it over the years. I just couldn’t spoil that for her, even if I was wrong, but something told me I wasn’t.
One thing was for sure, I was not going to miss seeing it happen. However covert my presence would have to be, I simply had to be there.
The venue was a local fire hall, and I was pleased to find that quite a crowd had shown up, either to participate or watch. It would be easy to blend in. I had followed her about a minute or two after she left. Even though there’d be plenty of bald heads to hide amongst, I still chose to wear a baseball cap.
So, I was more than a little shocked when there was a tap on my shoulder. Fearing the worst, I slowly turned around, and was more than a little relieved to see Hebb.
“What are you doing here, Claire?” He said, almost annoyed.
“Seemed like the place to be,” I answered, not knowing what else to say.
“If she sees you, it’s going to ruin everything.” He implied.
Damn, I so hate it when I’m right. This was supposed to be a surprise. “I found out a couple of weeks ago. Come to think about it, how is it that…”
“I’m the organizer, Claire.” He informed me.
“So, you knew about her doing this, when I was sitting in your chair last week?” I asked.
“I’ve known about it for over a month, Claire. She’s doing this for you.” Hebb heard his name called and turned back to me. “Do not let her see you.”
I’d been warned. Talk about feeling like a schmuck. For a minute, I almost got in my car and headed back home. I was so glad I didn’t.
I found a spot that was concealed from the area where the haircuts were taking place. I could still see the stage they had set up, but off to the side, so unless she was really looking, she wouldn’t see me.
There were two barbers doing the shaving, one of them being Hebb, and the other I recognized from Burn’s Barbershop when I used to go there. They started with the guys, but that went pretty quickly. There was the polite applause as they had their hair peeled off, the longer it was the louder the crowd. Eventually, they got to the girls.
I had had my eye on Terry the entire time. She was sitting with some other women in the front row of chairs that had been set up. Then the announcement came as my wife took the stage, flopping down in front of Hebb. I was shocked to learn that she’d raised over two thousand dollars, and suddenly the haircut seemed almost secondary, almost.
Hebb tied her hair into a ponytail, talking to her over her shoulder. All the nervousness that she was having earlier in the day seemed to have left her, as if she was suddenly resolved.
I fully expected Hebb to sheer off the pony with a pair of scissors. What actually happened was much more dramatic. I recognized the glint of those trimmer clippers anywhere, their gold plating reflecting the fluorescents high overhead.
After a few more words and a nod to the affirmative, he placed them at the center of my wife’s forehead and ran them over the top. He held onto the ponytail with one hand and shaved with the other. The commentary was all about how Terry wanted to donate as much hair as she could and wasn’t afraid to go bald to do it.
At one point the emcee leaned down and asked how she was doing, sticking the microphone in her face. “Fine, just fine.” She managed, but I knew better.
As her head was slowly peeled to the skin, I could see that she was struggling to hold back the tears. All I wanted to do was run up there and hold her, but I didn’t dare. I watched, helpless as the shape of her head became more and more apparent, her blonde hair held aloft, until it finally came free in Hebb’s hand.
He bent to hand Terry the substantial crop of hair, which she took from him, smiling. She stood up from the chair and there was a massive cheer as she waved the ponytail in front of her. She was not crying tears of angst or sadness. They were tears of joy. How could I have not seen the difference?
I quickly hopped in my car and high-tailed it back home. What I had seen wasn’t for my eyes to see, and I felt guilty for having done so. I fully intended to hide the fact that I was there, from her, but we had never kept any secrets from one another. Not until this.
When I heard her come in, I was in my office and quickly began typing, even though I hadn’t written anything all day.
“Claire?” She called out.
“I’m in my office,” I answered, not certain whether I should go to her or not.
“Hi!” She squeaked, as she popped her head around the corner.
“Whoah! Terry?” I jumped up from the chair and walked over to her. She looked amazing! From all that way away, I hadn’t really seen how good she looked without her hair.
“Oh, don’t act so surprised.” She accused. “I saw you there.”
For a moment, and having been caught, I didn’t know what to say. “I just had to be there, babe. I had to.”
“You saw the whole thing?” She asked, producing the voluminous bundle of blonde hair that had graced her head until that afternoon. I nodded. “I’m glad you were there.” She sighed. “It gave me strength knowing that you were.”
“Really. I thought I hid pretty…”
“Oh, come on! We’ve been together for twenty years. I saw you as soon as you walked in.” She scolded.
“I’m sorry I spoiled your surprise.” I managed, licking the carpet with my toe.
“You didn’t spoil anything, Claire. It was exciting knowing you were watching it happen to me.” She pulled into me, and for the first time, I allowed my hand to caress the nearly smooth surface of her head. “I imagined I was one of your damned characters.” She giggled. We both laughed.
“You look amazing.” I sighed, and meant every word.
“Why, thank you. I have to admit, the first mirror I saw almost bowled me right over.” She ran her hand up inside my shirt, cupping my breast. “Now, I want you to finish the job.”
She didn’t have to ask twice.
A note to my loyal readers. I struggled long and hard over whether to share this story with you. You can thank my wife, who insisted that I share it. For me, it was a deeply personal look into my fetish, and how it affects the ones I love. I hope you have enjoyed this slightly embarrassing look into my life, my angst, and my love.
P.S. And yes, The Hair Fair was very loosely inspired by this event.