Legendary Head Shave Tales
After the wedding, Srivalli quickly adjusted to Pushpa’s small house. It wasn’t grand, but to her, it felt warm. The way his mother served food with a smile, the way the fan creaked above them at night—it was all new, but she loved it. Pushpa was calm and casual, never forcing anything, and that made her fall for him even more. They left for their honeymoon to a simple cottage . The air was cool, the place silent, and Srivalli felt like they were in their own world.
That night, after freshening up, she changed into a soft cotton nightie and sat near the window. Pushpa was drying his hair with a towel, looking relaxed. She smiled and called him. “Pushpa… can I tell you something?” He nodded and sat beside her. She rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers playing with the edge of her braid. “I have a small wish… actually, a desire. I always loved watching Gundu video in net. I used to imagine how it would feel like to get gundu.
After seeing you in your shop for the first time, it became a dream. I want you to shave my head.” Pushpa blinked. “Ippuda?” She nodded. “Yes, Ippude. On our honeymoon. I want to feel that peace. I want to be myself with you.” He smiled, got up, and took out his shaving kit. “Nuvvu cheppavu ga sare… I’ll do it chinni.” Srivalli sat on a stool in the bathroom. Pushpa untied her long braid gently, running his fingers through it before picking up the scissors. With calm hands, he began cutting—chunk by chunk, her thick hair fell to the floor.
She closed her eyes, heart thudding, a strange mix of nervousness and excitement building inside. Once it was cropped, he applied shaving cream over her head. The cold foam made her shiver a little. He smiled and said, “Don’t move, chinni.” The razor touched her scalp, and with each stroke, she felt a strange joy. Her face relaxed, her lips parted slightly as if releasing something she’d held inside for long. When it was done, he wiped her head clean and showed her in the mirror.
She gasped softly, running her hand over the smooth scalp. Her eyes sparkled. “Na nija roopam idi,” she whispered. Pushpa pulled her close. “And I love this roopam.” Later that night, they lay together, skin touching, no lies, no layers. For Srivalli, it wasn’t just intimacy—it was freedom. For the first time, she felt truly seen. The baldness didn’t make her feel less; it made her feel more—more real, more alive, more loved. A week passed since their honeymoon, and Srivalli’s hair slowly started to grow into stubbles.
Every morning, she woke up, touched her bald scalp, and smiled to herself. She no longer felt the weight of hair on her head or heart. She moved around the small house freely—making coffee, sweeping the floor, chatting with the neighbours. One evening, while having dinner with Pushpa’s parents, Srivalli decided to speak openly. She folded her hands and said with a soft smile, “Amma, nanna… I wanted to tell you something. I have always loved head shaving since I was young. It gives me Manasanthi. I feel like myself.
I want to continue shaving my head, whenever I feel like.” There was a short silence. Pushpa looked at her proudly and nodded. His amma smiled slowly, a little surprised, but kind. “Srivalli, we never expected this… but meeru santoshamga unte chalu. That’s all we want.” His father chuckled. “Idi koncham new for us, but no problem. Just be scared of the outside world nee venakala meem untam ,” he added. Srivalli felt her heart lighten. She was accepted. After that day, she felt no hesitation.
Every weekend, she would sit outside on a small stool, and Pushpa would take out his razor. She would close her eyes, smile, and let the blades kiss her scalp. The sound of stibbles scraping became music to her ears. She went bald to the market, to the temple, and to relatives’ houses. Some people stared. Some asked questions. A few women even whispered behind her back. But Srivalli didn’t care. She would just laugh and ignore. Pushpa’s parents grew fond of her bold nature.
She helped amma in the kitchen, cleaned the house, and added energy to their home. Even with her bald head, she tied a small jasmine string to one ear or wore bright bangles. She carried herself with so much charm that even those who mocked her once started admiring her. At night, when they lay together, Srivalli would often pull Pushpa’s hand to her head and say, “Touch and see… isn’t it smooth?” He would laugh and tease her, “yem obsession chinni!” And she would grin, “It’s your love, barber husband!”
Their bond grew stronger. Srivalli’s love for head shaving didn’t just stay as a quiet passion—it became her daily mood. Almost every second day, she would look into the mirror, rub her growing stubble, and run to Pushpa, “Raa Pushpa… it’s time. Let’s shave!” Pushpa, half-asleep or busy in his shop work, would laugh and say, “Ayyayyo, again? Yesterday only I shaved, le?” But Srivalli wouldn’t stop. She’d follow him around the house like a child, complaining, teasing, or pretending to cry.
“Naaku vaddu ee small hair… full clean ga kavali,” she’d say, pulling his hand and dragging him toward the bathroom. Even when he was tired, Pushpa couldn’t resist her innocent madness. Sometimes, he would act grumpy, “You’re becoming crazy, Srivalli,” but he’d still take out the razor with a soft smile. Their bathroom became her temple. She would sit on the small stool like it was her throne. Pushpa would pour warm water, gently lather her
head, and run the blade slowly over her scalp. Srivalli would close her eyes, letting out a satisfied sigh as each stroke brought back that perfect smoothness. It wasn’t just the shave—it was the feeling. The closeness. The comfort. The touch of the blade mixed with Pushpa’s presence made her heart beat faster. After every shave, she would jump in front of the mirror, touch her head lovingly, and twirl around like a kid. “Next time I’ll do it myself if you make me wait,” she’d threaten him,
crossing her arms dramatically. Pushpa would just wink and say, “That’s why I married a crazy queen.” And she would blush, leaning on his shoulder, whispering, “Your my crazy bald queen.” Her obsession became a part of their daily life. For a whole month, Pushpa did not shave Srivalli’s head. His work had become demanding, and after long days at the shop, he often came home exhausted. The constant requests from Srivalli had slowed down, and Pushpa thought maybe she would get used to having some hair back.
But he underestimated how deeply the gundu was tied to her happiness. Srivalli felt the change immediately. Her once smooth scalp was now covered with short, prickly stubble that made her skin feel itchy and uncomfortable. She tried to ignore it, telling herself it was just hair growing back, but every glance in the mirror brought disappointment. The soft, clean feeling she loved was gone, and with it, her peace of mind. As the days passed, she became more restless.
The playful teasing and gentle pleading turned into sharp words and silent sulks. Pushpa noticed, but he was tired and busy, often brushing off her mood as temporary irritation. He did not realize that her discomfort was growing into something heavier. Then came the family gathering, a big event that everyone had been preparing for. Srivalli dreaded it. She did not want to attend with her patchy hair, feeling exposed and unlike herself. The idea of facing relatives and their curious eyes made her chest tighten with anxiety.
On the day of the function, Srivalli stayed quiet. She avoided conversations, speaking only when necessary, and kept her eyes down. Pushpa watched her silence and cold behavior with concern but was unsure how to help. Srivalli’s frustration grew into anger, though she kept it inside. She felt pushed aside, as if her needs and feelings no longer mattered. The head shave was not just about appearance—it was her way of feeling loved, cared for, and true to herself. Without it, she felt lost.
At the gathering, she moved like a shadow, distant and disconnected. The usual sparkle in her eyes was missing, replaced by a quiet storm of hurt and longing. Pushpa wished he could reach her but didn’t know the words. In that silence between them, the distance grew, setting the stage for what was to come. After they returned home from the family gathering, Pushpa didn’t waste any time. Without saying much, he gently took Srivalli by the hand and led her to the bathroom.
This time, his grip was firmer, and the way he held the razor was more deliberate. There was an unusual seriousness in his eyes, a hint of quiet frustration beneath his calm exterior. As he started shaving her head, the strokes were harder, and the buzzing of the razor filled the small space. The smoothness of her scalp slowly returned, but this shave was different from the gentle ones before. Despite the firmer touch and the sharper feeling, Srivalli closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the familiar coolness and freedom that came with being bald.
Her skin tingled with every swipe of the blade, and a secret smile played on her lips, even as Pushpa worked with a little more force than usual. She loved the feeling of control it gave her over her own body and emotions, and this rougher shave made it feel even more real. When Pushpa finished, Srivalli looked at herself in the mirror and ran her smooth hand over her bald head, feeling the cool shine beneath her fingers. Then, turning toward Pushpa with a teasing smile, she pulled at his arm playfully.
“You know, pushpa, you could have shaved me earlier, before the family function. I would have gone there proud, with a smooth bald head. You missed your chance to make me the star of the evening.” Pushpa’s expression shifted. He put down the razor and faced her fully, his eyes serious now. “Srivalli,” he said quietly but firmly, “I know how much you love this, and I don’t want to stop you. But you can’t let this become everything. The feeling, the shaving—it’s not life itself. There’s more out there.
More important things that need your mind, your heart. Don’t let this obsession control you. Be the queen of your mind, not a slave to your desires.” Srivalli looked at him, surprised by the strength in his voice. His words touched something deep inside her, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it out loud. There was a quiet pause between them, heavy with meaning. For the first time, she thought maybe there was some truth in what he said, even if the desire still burned strong within her.
Pushpa reached out and gently took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here with you,” he said softly. “We’ll figure this out together chinni.” And in that moment, the rough shave, the teasing, and the serious talk all came together to mark a turning point in their strange, loving dance — a moment where desire met reality, and love met understanding.
