Theobald
Jean scrolled through pages of wig advertisements, her mind wandering as she admired the sleek, styled options on display. How much easier life would be if I didn’t have to deal with this unruly mess every day, she mused, running a hand through her wild, untamed hair. The thought of slipping on a perfectly coiffed wig each morning—no fuss, no struggle—was tempting. But then a pang of hesitation struck her. What would Alex think if I suddenly showed up bald? The image of her boyfriend’s puzzled expression made her chuckle nervously. Still, the idea lingered, tugging at her imagination like a forbidden daydream.
The wigs on offer were surprisingly affordable. Jean toyed with the idea of buying three or four—different styles, similar lengths—just enough variety to keep things interesting. But her thoughts inevitably circled back to the same question: What would I do with my real hair? She sighed, brushing her fingers through the unruly strands. Damn hair. Such a nuisance. If only it would vanish on its own. She imagined cutting it all off, maybe using creams to keep her head smooth. The simplicity of it was alluring, almost freeing. But another thought crept in, gnawing at her resolve: Would Alex accept that?
That night, Jean dreamed of herself without hair. She and Alex were dancing through lush green meadows, the breeze gliding gently over her bare scalp. She felt the sun’s warmth on her skin, the wind’s kiss where her hair used to be. Alex looked at her with eyes full of love and pride, as if her baldness only made her more radiant. He reached out, rubbing her smooth head with tender affection, a smile playing on his lips. He kissed her scalp softly, pausing now and then to caress it, his touch sending ripples of joy through her. Jean revelled in the sensation, savouring every moment of his care. She was happy—lighter, freer—unburdened by the weight of her hair.
Jean awoke the next morning, the dream still vivid in her mind. She could almost feel the wind on her smooth scalp and Alex’s tender touch. Was this a sign? she wondered. Could it mean Alex would support her transformation into a wig-wearing woman, her head smoothly shaved beneath, completely bald as she lay next to him in their bed? The thought filled her with a mix of hope and resolve. Later that day, Jean discreetly acquired a few brochures from wig dealers, leaving them scattered around her apartment. When Alex visited next, he noticed them immediately. Picking one up, he raised an eyebrow.
“There’s no way you could wear a wig over all this Shirley Temple Plus hair,” he said, gesturing toward her thick curls with a teasing grin.
Jean hesitated, then confessed, “I was thinking of thinning it out. Maybe even removing it completely—just living in wigs. It’d make my life so much easier.”
Alex’s expression shifted in an instant. “Are you serious?” he asked, his voice rising. “Why would a woman with perfectly good hair want to shave it off and wear wigs? That’s insane!”
Her stomach tightened as his words hit her. “It’s not about the hair, Alex. It’s about me. This… this mess is a burden! I want to feel free, to make my life easier.” She paused, her voice trembling. “Do you even understand how much I struggle with this every day?”
Alex shook his head, his frustration evident. “I’m not prepared to share a bed with a cue ball, Jean. If you go through with this, I’m out of here.”
The room fell silent. Jean stared at him, her heart pounding. “So you’re fickle enough to leave me over this? Because I want to take control of something that’s been dragging me down for years?” Her voice wavered, a mix of anger and sadness. “You’re not prepared to stand by me as I try to improve my life? Do you even love me?” Alex’s face softened for a moment, but he said nothing. Jean’s question hung in the air like a challenge, daring him to answer.
Jean’s voice rose, trembling with frustration and years of pent-up resentment. “I’ve put up with this my whole life, Alex. Ever since I had to start managing this hair on my own, it’s been a constant battle. Nearly twenty years of this—and enough is enough!” She shook her head, her eyes blazing. “And now you’ve convinced me that you… I don’t know… I can’t even imagine what you want from me. Did your first wife kick you out because you were so difficult about how she needed to run her life?” Her words struck a nerve. Alex’s face twisted in anger, his fists clenching at his sides. He surged toward her, his expression wild and unrestrained. But just as he closed the distance, he stopped, his body trembling as if caught in a silent battle with himself. For a moment, the room was thick with tension.
Then, with a sharp intake of breath, Alex turned away. Without a word, he stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Jean stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to cry out, to call him back, to undo what had just happened. But as the silence settled over her, a stark realization took hold. No. This was for the best. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced herself to breathe deeply. I’ve probably just saved myself from something dangerous, she thought, the weight of relief mixing with the sting of heartbreak. Slowly, she sank onto the couch, her hands trembling as she tried to steady herself. For the first time, she truly saw the cracks in the relationship she had ignored for too long.
A spark of rebellion flared within Jean as she sat alone in the stillness of her apartment. Alex’s outburst had hurt her, but more than that, it had ignited a fiery resolve. He doesn’t want to stand by me? Fine. I’ll stand by myself, she thought, her jaw tightening. He’ll see just how wrong he was. Right then and there, Jean decided to move forward with her plan. She would research every detail—how to remove her hair, how to maintain a smooth, bald head, and how to make wigs a part of her new life. No more compromises, no more trying to tame the wild mane she despised. The thought of freeing herself from its weight filled her with exhilaration. She made up her mind to start that weekend, the time she would have spent with that brute, as she now thought of Alex, would instead be spent planning her transformation. She would purchase several wigs, each carefully chosen to reflect her evolving style, and the tools she’d need to keep her head smooth and polished. Her baldness wouldn’t be a secret; she would wear it with pride.
Let anyone who brings up hair know the truth, she resolved. I shave my head, and I love it. My hair is gone for good, and I’m better for it. This wasn’t just about practicality anymore; it was about reclaiming her autonomy, her confidence, her identity. Jean envisioned herself standing tall, unapologetic and radiant in her new life, free of the burdens others had placed on her—or the ones she had placed on herself. She smiled, a quiet defiance building within her. This isn’t just a transformation. This is me. That weekend, Jean sat down with her laptop, her mind buzzing with anticipation. A colleague had recommended a site specializing in wigs and hair care, and she had eagerly shared her plans with anyone willing to listen. Reactions had been mixed—some were shocked, but many more had been supportive, encouraging her decision to take control of her life.
Navigating the site was easier than she’d expected. Its user-friendly design made her research a breeze, and before long, she had several wigs in her shopping basket: a sleek bob, a long and wavy style, and even a playful pixie cut. Each one reflected a part of the new, liberated woman she envisioned becoming. As she browsed further, she discovered tools that could help her achieve her dream. A set of Turbo Clippers caught her eye, promising to trim her hair down to short stubble. Perfect for the first step, she thought, adding them to her cart. But her dream had been of complete baldness—the smooth, shining scalp that had felt so freeing in her imagination. For that, she would need more than clippers. She explored options for razors but soon stumbled upon depilatory creams. These seemed to align perfectly with her plan, offering not just temporary hair removal but, in some cases, promising permanent results. The idea thrilled her. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right, she resolved, adding several tubes of the cream to her growing order.
With her cart totalling $240, Jean entered her card details and hit the “Submit Order” button. Delivery was promised within two weeks. She leaned back in her chair, a sense of accomplishment washing over her. Just two weeks, she thought. Two weeks until the wigs, the clippers, and the creams arrived. Two weeks until she could transform herself into the bald woman she had dreamed of, freed from the burden of her unruly hair. For the first time in years, she felt a glimmer of hope—a release from the pain and frustration that had haunted her for so long. Jean smiled to herself, her heart lighter than it had been in days. The countdown to her liberation had begun.
Ten days later, Jean’s parcel arrived. Her heart raced as she carried it to the table, her hands trembling with excitement. She tore through the layers of secure wrapping, revealing the treasures inside. The wigs were the first to catch her eye. She lifted one and ran her fingers through the strands, marvelling at its texture. It felt so real, so natural. She held it up to the light, imagining the moment when it would replace the wild curls she had grown to despise. Her excitement grew as she unpacked the others, each one more beautiful than the last. Soon, she thought, these will be my new identity. Next, she turned to the clippers. Sleek and beautifully designed, they felt like they had been made just for her hand, their weight and look a promise of precision. She couldn’t wait to hear the hum of their motor, to watch as they transformed her dream into reality. But a glance at the manual reminded her they needed to be fully charged before use. She set them aside, eager but patient.
Finally, she examined the tubes of depilatory cream. The instructions were simple and direct: apply the cream, leave it on for no more than 25 minutes, then scrape it off with the provided plastic scraper. A warning in bold letters cautioned against leaving it on too long, as it could cause permanent damage to the hair roots. Jean’s lips curled into a smile. Permanent damage is exactly what I want. The thought of killing the roots, ensuring they would never produce another strand of hair, sent a thrill through her. Her scalp had to be completely smooth—no stubble, no regrowth, nothing. This wasn’t just about removing hair; it was about erasing it forever.
But she would have to wait until the next day to begin her transformation. She decided to call in sick, knowing she needed time to see this through. The thought of taking action filled her with purpose. Tomorrow, she promised herself, tomorrow, I take control. As she prepared for bed that night, Jean’s mind swirled with anticipation. For the first time in years, she felt truly ready—not just to change her appearance, but to free herself from the burden she had carried for so long.
Jean woke up after a restless night, her dreams swirling with fragments of excitement and doubt. Instead of calling in sick, she decided to take a personal day. This is personal, she thought, a private transformation too profound to hide behind an excuse. Besides, how would it look if she showed up at work the next day, healthy and bald? Skipping breakfast in her excitement, she quickly downed a cup of coffee and retrieved her tools of liberation, as she had come to call them. The clipper’s LED now glowed green instead of red—the signal they were fully charged. Ready. But was she?
To steady her nerves, Jean looked through the wigs again. She held each one up, imagining herself as the woman she wanted to become. Wavy locks cascading down her back. A sharp bob with a perfectly straight fringe. A lively, bouncy pixie. Each style whispered promise and possibility. Yes, she told herself. I can do this. Her gaze turned to herself in the mirror, contemplating the process ahead. What to wear? she mused, then shrugged. Why bother? She was alone. No one would see her, and once the depilatory cream had worked its magic, she’d head straight to the shower anyway. Resolutely, she slipped off her sleeping shirt, standing naked before the mirror. But not as naked as she would soon be.
Jean reached for the clippers, her breath catching as she felt their cool, comforting weight in her hand. They hummed faintly in her grip, vibrating with anticipation. She placed them at her forehead, the metal pressing lightly against her skin. This was it. Freedom, her liberation, as easy as that flick of the little switch.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and smiled. Let’s begin. Slowly, Jean pushed the clippers backward over her scalp. The machine hummed as it bit into her resistant hair, slowing slightly under the thickness of the strands. But the wild curls were no match for the whizzing blades. She felt the clippers moving steadily across her skin, leaving what she imagined to be a clear path behind. Her heart raced, and she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes, not sure if she was ready to see the transformation yet. She repeated the motion, carefully sliding the clippers over the top of her head. After several passes, she reached up to touch the area and found it nearly smooth, devoid of hair. A small smile crept across her lips. Encouraged, she continued, working her way down to the level of her ears. She paused, unsure of the next step. Maybe from the bottom up? she thought.
Tilting her head slightly, Jean tried sliding the clippers upward from the base of her skull. To her relief, it worked. Slowly and methodically, she cleared the right side of her head, then the left. The sound of the clippers filled the room, steady and hypnotic. Still, she kept her eyes firmly shut, relying on touch alone to guide her progress. Finally, she reached the section at the very back of her head. Tilting her chin forward, she ran the clippers from the crown to the nape, the blades gliding smoothly as they eliminated the last remnants of her hair. She repeated the motion again and again until she felt no more resistance. The clippers had done their job.
Jean turned off the machine and stood still, the silence almost deafening. Her breath caught as she reached up with trembling fingers, her left hand exploring every inch of her scalp. The sensation was strange and exhilarating—her head felt lighter, freer, smooth except for a slight roughness from the stubble. The clippers were remarkable, cutting through her unruly curls with precision. Her lips curled into a small, triumphant smile. She wasn’t completely bald yet, but the hard part was over. For the first time, she let herself imagine what the next step would feel like—when she would become the bald woman she had envisioned, utterly free.
Opening her eyes, Jean was greeted by her reflection, and the sight made her want to scream in exhilaration. Her head, though faintly shadowed with stubble, looked incredible—clean, bold, and completely different from the image she had lived with for so long. She reached up, running her fingers over the faintly rough surface, marvelling at the smoothness beneath. It felt even better than she had imagined, and she was utterly enthralled. A giddy smile spread across her face as she leaned closer to the mirror, tilting her head this way and that. This is me now, she thought, a wave of pride swelling in her chest. For a fleeting moment, she imagined walking out into the world just like this—no wigs, no apologies. Just her bare, beautiful scalp, a symbol of freedom and defiance.
But reality settled in as quickly as the thought had come. If only the world were ready for women to be this bold, she mused, her excitement tempered by the weight of social expectations. Perhaps one day she would be brave enough to leave the wigs behind, to let the world see her as she truly was. But for now, she wasn’t quite there. The world—and her bosses, she realized with a grimace—weren’t ready for this version of Jean, and maybe she wasn’t ready to face their judgment either. Still, this was her journey, and she had taken the first step. A thrill coursed through her as she turned away from the mirror. Now, for the next step. She glanced at the depilatory cream sitting on the counter, its promise of a completely smooth scalp calling to her. With renewed determination, she picked it up and began reading the instructions again.
Her liberation wasn’t complete yet, but it was within reach.
Jean squeezed a generous dollop of the cream into her hand and began spreading it across the top of her head. She massaged it in with slow, deliberate motions, ensuring the cream coated every inch of her scalp. A second dollop followed, then a third, until her entire head was covered in the pungent, acrid-smelling substance. Wrinkling her nose, she glanced at the clock and noted the time. The instructions had been clear—no more than 25 minutes. But as she stared at her reflection, a thought crept in. What if I stretched it a little? Let the chemicals penetrate deeper, attack the roots more thoroughly? She considered giving it 10% more time—or even 25%. The cream had promised dramatic results, and she was eager to ensure they were permanent. Wait until it burns slightly—that’s when it’s working best, she decided, a shiver of both anticipation and apprehension running through her.
Satisfied, she stepped back to inspect her progress. That’s when her gaze fell on her pubes, and another concern rose. Her brows and lashes. No, she thought firmly. Those stay. But what about the strip of hair that had been shaped to accommodate her bikini line? Could she trust the cream in such delicate areas? She had already worried about her eyes and her dainty ears when applying the cream. The idea of spreading it so close to her vagina felt like tempting fate. A small voice in her head urged caution. There was no room for mistakes in this part of her journey. She wiped her hands and reached for the clippers again, two swipes and her pubes now matched what she imagined her head would look like, that is after he had passed the razor over her fanny in the shower.
Almost there. The faint tingle of the cream beginning to work sent a thrill through her. Soon, she would take the final step toward the smooth, bare head she had dreamed of. Jean’s scalp was tingling now and that signalled it was time. The last of my hair, she thought, her heart pounding. She wanted to shout the words aloud, to proclaim her liberation, but time was creeping up on her. The cream had done its job, and she needed to clear it off before it lingered too long. The shower was already running, the water warmed to the perfect temperature. But just as she was about to step in, she remembered the instructions: scrape first. Grabbing the little plastic scraper, she positioned herself over the basin. With a steady but eager hand, she dragged the scraper across her scalp.
The transformation was immediate and mesmerizing. Behind the scraper’s edge, her skin emerged white and smooth, a stark contrast to the stubble-covered scalp she had started with. Jean paused, mouth agape, as she stared at the reflection in the mirror. This is it, she thought. The evolution to a completely hairless scalp. The sight filled her with a mix of awe and excitement. Working quickly now, she scraped off the rest of the cream, rinsing the scraper frequently as it filled with dissolved hair and residue. Each stroke revealed more of her bare scalp, gleaming under the bathroom light. Her movements became more hurried, fuelled by eagerness and anticipation.
Finally, the cream was gone. Jean stepped into the shower, the warm water cascading over her head, a feeling so unique, so invigorating and so novel. She ran her hands over her scalp, feeling its silky smoothness for the first time. It was soft, slippery, and utterly free of hair. She couldn’t suppress the grin spreading across her face.
This is me now, she thought, closing her eyes and savouring the sensation. The last of her hair was gone, washed down the drain with the residue of stubble infused cream and with it, the burden she had carried for so long. Shaving her pussy was almost a formality as she created a totally hairless woman, the hairless woman that her dreams had been made of.
