Tattoos and Much More

Fred leaned back in his chair, staring intently at the images on the monitor. “So, is it tattooed women who are bald or bald women who are tattooed?” he mused aloud.

Amy frowned, her eyebrows knitting in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Fred gestured at the screen. “Look at those pictures. Were they bald first and then got tattooed, or did the tattoos come before they shaved their heads?”

Shaking her head with a smirk, Amy replied, “I’ve got my whole left arm covered in a full sleeve tattoo, and I’m not bald, am I?”

Fred turned to her, his face lighting up with that familiar mischievous look she knew all too well.

“Oh, no,” she said pre-emptively, raising her hand as if to block whatever was coming next. “No way. I am not shaving my head. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Fred pressed, his grin widening. “You’re bold enough to have a whole sleeve on your left arm and about to start your right. Not to mention the design on your lower back. So why stop there? What’s stopping you from being bold enough to let me shave your head?”

Amy narrowed her eyes, fixing him with a hard stare. “You’re not serious, right?”

“Why not?” he countered. “Look how great she looks! Tattooed much like you’ll soon be, with that smooth, shiny head. I bet she gets all kinds of admiring looks—and imagine her partner rubbing her head at every chance. Now, that’s sexy.”

Amy rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Fred, you’re nuts. No one actually thinks a bald woman is sexy.”

Fred’s eyes twinkled as he leaned in. “Thirty years ago, who would have considered your tattoos as being sexy?”

“Hey, come here, son,” Fred called, waving him over.

The boy wandered in, curious. “What’s up, Dad?”

Fred pointed at the monitor. “What do you think of these ladies with their tattoos and bald heads?”

The boy leaned in, studying the screen for a moment before his face lit up. “Wow, I think they look really cool, Dad!” he said enthusiastically.

Fred shot Amy a triumphant look. “See? Even your son gets it.”

Amy raised an eyebrow at her son. “And why would you think I’d shave my head?” she asked, folding her arms.

“Because you’d look awesome, Mom!” he replied, grinning. “You’ve already got the tattoos. I think it’d suit you.”

Fred leaned back smugly. “Out of the mouths of babes. What more proof do you need?”

Amy rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “You’re both perverts,” she muttered, but her tone was playful, softened by a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Still, as the conversation fizzled, her eyes wandered back to the screen. She scrolled further, her fingers moving slower than usual, her attention shifting. The images were a mix—some women sported vibrant, vividly coloured hair, others had intricate partial shaves. But her gaze kept circling back to the completely bald ones. Their heads gleamed under sunlight or studio lights, reflecting a confidence and defiance that tugged at something deep in her.

Her scrolling slowed even more. The shine of those smooth heads… the boldness in their eyes… the way they carried themselves. She couldn’t look away.

Fred noticed her hesitation, a sly smile forming. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he teased.

“I am not,” Amy snapped, though her voice lacked conviction.

“You totally are,” Fred said, grinning. Their son nodded in agreement, already retreating to the door.

“Go for it, Mom!” the boy called over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

Amy sat back in her chair, still scrolling slowly. Her mind swirled with thoughts she wasn’t ready to admit—not to Fred, not to herself.

As their son dashed down the stairs, his voice echoed through the house. “Mom is going to be ba-ald!” he shouted, his laughter trailing off into the distance.

Amy sighed, pulling a face as she quickly changed the screen. But her thoughts lingered. Absentmindedly, she ran her hand over her honey-blond hair, the silky strands slipping through her fingers. It fell just to her shoulders—short enough to show off the tattoo that snaked up her arm and onto her shoulder.

The ink peeked out from beneath her blouse, though these days, she rarely bothered to cover it. She had grown proud of the intricate design, which had once been a source of tension between her and Fred. He hadn’t been immediately sold on the idea of her getting tattooed, and it had taken months of quiet persuasion.

In the end, it was her sister’s relentless nagging that had tipped the scales. Married to a tattoo artist and heavily tattooed herself, her sister had convinced Fred to let Amy be a “model” for a trainee. The discounted price and the promise of minimal risk finally won him over.

Amy had been nervous at first—terrified, even. But when she saw the first lines etched into her skin, something clicked. The tattoo was more than just ink; Now, her first sleeve was complete, a masterpiece she couldn’t stop showing off, and she was already planning the next phase.

In fact, she was due to pick the artwork for her right arm within the next few days. The thought of it sent a spark of excitement through her. Her fingers paused mid-stroke as she touched her hair again. She couldn’t help but think of the bald women on the screen. Their shining heads, unapologetically bare, spoke to her in a way she wasn’t ready to admit. Would shaving her head be the next step in her journey, or was it a step too far?

“Stop it, Amy,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head as though to clear the thought. She turned off the screen and stood, heading to the kitchen. But as she walked, the ghost of an idea lingered, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

The sudden stillness in the room amplified her thoughts. What had Fred really meant when he said he’d shave her head? Did he actually want a bald wife, a wife whose head he had personally shaved to the skin, or was it just another one of his teasing whims?

Her fingers wandered absently to her hair again, brushing the ends. She had spent months growing comfortable in her skin with her tattoos, facing raised eyebrows and awkward smiles from her parents. Her bold ink was already a lot for them to take in, both their daughters having tattoos—her mother had once muttered under her breath about “ruining her beautiful arms.” A bald head? That would push them into a whole new realm of discomfort.

And yet… her son’s voice rang in her ears. “You’d look real cool, Mom!” Not in so many words, but his meaning had been clear. He would be thrilled to have a mother as daring as the women on the screen. His enthusiasm, so unfiltered and pure, had caught her off guard.

Still, the questions swirled in her mind. Would shaving her head be a one-time experiment, something bold and fleeting? Or would it become part of her identity, just as the tattoos had? Would Fred expect her to maintain it indefinitely? The way he’d spoken—it wasn’t just about her shaving her head.

She couldn’t shake the nagging worry about permanence. What if she hated it? Could she set a time limit on her baldness, give it a trial run of sorts? Or would the act of shaving her head mean a permanent goodbye to the safety of her honey-blond locks? The thought lingered as she tried to imagine herself with a smooth, bare scalp. How would she feel? How would the world see her?

These thoughts plagued her throughout the evening, trailing her like shadows even as she climbed into bed beside Fred. He was already under the sheets, his breathing calm and steady. She slid in next to him, her mind far from rest.

Unable to sleep, Amy slipped out of bed sometime after midnight, padding softly to the kitchen for a glass of milk. The cool drink calmed her for a moment, but her mind still raced. Returning to the bedroom, she was surprised to find Fred awake, propped up on one elbow.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low and laced with concern.

Amy sighed, sliding back under the covers. “No,” she admitted. “I’ve been mulling over what you asked me.”

Fred frowned. “You mean about shaving your head?”

She nodded, and he exhaled heavily, running a hand through his own hair. “Amy, I’m sorry I ever brought it up. I didn’t mean to upset you. Really, forget it. The whole thing was just me talking nonsense.”

“Not so easy,” Amy replied, her voice quiet but steady. “You’ve sown a seed, Fred. And now I can’t stop thinking about it. About you… and our son… wanting me bald.”

Fred sat up straighter, the bed creaking slightly beneath him. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “He’s a kid. You know how he is—he just says what’s on his mind. He wasn’t trying to pressure you or anything.”

Amy shook her head. “May be. But the way he said it—it felt like he’d be proud of me if I did it. Like he’d think it was cool.” She paused, running her fingers absently through her hair. “And you, Fred? Would you?”

Fred hesitated, searching for the right words. In the dim light, he could see her hand stroking her hair, smoothing it out, then shaking it lightly, letting it fall back into place. There was a wistful, almost anxious energy to the gesture, and his heart sank.

“I feel terrible about this,” he said finally. “I didn’t mean to make you feel pressured or unsure about yourself. You’re beautiful the way you are—always have been, always will be.”

The softness in his voice made Amy look over at him, her hand falling still. “But you brought it up for a reason, didn’t you?” she pressed gently.

Fred hesitated again before nodding. “I guess… I just thought you might like the idea. I mean, you’ve already embraced so much with the tattoos. It wasn’t about me wanting you to be bald—it was more about wondering if you’d ever want to. But if it’s upsetting you, Amy, the subject is closed. End of story.”

She studied his face, his sincerity clear even in the dim light. “I’m not upset,” she said softly. “Not really. I just—there’s something about it I can’t stop thinking about. I don’t even know why.”

Fred reached out and took her hand, pulling it gently away from her hair. “Whatever you decide, it’s your choice, Amy. You don’t owe it to me, or to our son, or anyone else. I hope you know that.”

Amy nodded, her hand resting in his. The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the overhead fan. After a few moments, he caressed her thighs and gently slipped onto her, their lovemaking was gentle and had a sign of sincerity in it that relaxed her once more. Afterwards she lay back, her thoughts still swirling but her heart a little lighter.

Fred watched her, guilt still gnawing at him as she closed her eyes. He wanted to take back the whole conversation, but the seed was planted, just as she’d said. And from the way her fingers had lingered in her hair, he suspected it wasn’t going away anytime soon.

The next afternoon, as Amy walked past her son’s bedroom, she caught a glimpse through the partly open door. He was sitting at his desk, scrolling through pictures on his computer. Something made her pause. A double take revealed what he was looking at—images of bald women.

Amy pushed the door open, and he hastily switched screens, spinning his chair to face her with a guilty expression. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, his cheeks flushing as he tried to appear nonchalant.

“Okay, kid,” Amy said, crossing her arms. “Let’s go back to that screen. I saw you.”

He hesitated, fidgeting with the mouse. “Mom, it’s nothing—” he started, but her raised eyebrow silenced him. Reluctantly, he hit the back button, and the images returned.

Amy stepped further into the room, pulling up a chair next to him. She studied the screen for a moment before turning to him. “Now tell me,” she said calmly, “what you’re doing and why you’re looking at pictures of bald women.”

Her son squirmed in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “I was just… curious,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Curious about what?” Amy pressed gently.

He took a deep breath, avoiding her gaze. “About what a bald woman really looks like,” he said finally. “I mean, I’ve seen some women with really short hair, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with a completely shaved head. Not in real life, anyway.”

Amy tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “Why the sudden interest?” she asked.

He shrugged, still not looking at her. “I guess… I was just wondering what it would look like if you did it. You know, like you and Dad were talking about.”

Amy leaned back slightly, processing his answer. Her eyes drifted to the screen again, where images of women scrolled by—some young, some older, with gleaming scalps or faint shadows of stubble. They all had a striking look, each owning their baldness in a way that demanded attention.

She pointed to one picture, a woman about her age. Her head was shaved close, with just a hint of regrowth giving her scalp a soft, silvery shadow. The woman wore a simple black top and hoop earrings, her expression confident and serene.

“What do you think of her?” Amy asked, her tone even.

Her son hesitated, glancing at the image. “I think… she looks cool,” he said after a moment. “Like, she’s confident. Like she doesn’t care what anyone else thinks.”

Amy studied the photo more closely. There was a simplicity to the woman’s look, a boldness that felt raw yet elegant. She didn’t seem to be hiding anything, and there was something captivating about that.

Her son’s voice broke her thoughts. “I think you’d look kind of like her,” he said quietly. “If you ever did it.”

Amy turned to him, surprised. “You really think that?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You’re already cool, Mom. The tattoos and stuff… I just think if anyone could pull it off, it’d be you.”

For a moment, Amy didn’t know what to say. She reached out and ruffled his hair, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Thanks, kid. That’s… sweet of you to say.”

He smiled back, his embarrassment fading a little. Amy looked at the screen again, her mind drifting as the images scrolled by. Could she really do it? Would she be as confident as the woman in the picture—or would she regret it the moment the clippers touched her hair?

She patted her son’s shoulder as she stood. “Alright, finish up your homework,” she said with a wink. “And maybe stick to stuff you’re not too embarrassed to talk about next time.”

Keeping their appointment, the family of three—Fred, Amy, and their son—arrived at the tattoo studio. The familiar buzz of the machines and the scent of antiseptic inked the air, reminding Amy of her last visit. They were greeted warmly by her brother-in-law and sister, who were eager to help finalize the design for her next sleeve.

For hours, they pored over books, online galleries, and Amy’s sister’s personal suggestions with variations of her own ink. After much deliberation, a design emerged— intricate, and vibrant, matching her left arm in shades and density. It was everything Amy wanted: a seamless continuation of her left sleeve, incorporating natural elements and mostly feminine patterns that complemented her existing ink. The final design was unanimously approved, and her brother-in-law reminded them of the process.

“As before, we’ll need a few days to prep the layout and stencils,” he said, showing them preliminary sketches. “And remember, we’ll do the arm in stages—start with the outlines at the shoulder joint and work our way down. Filling it in will happen in phases.”

Amy nodded, accustomed to the process, but the phrase “in stages” lingered in her mind. It sparked an idea—a way to take control of the swirling thoughts she’d been wrestling with since the night before.

On the way home, she turned to Fred as he navigated the familiar streets. “Can you pull over at that drugstore?” she asked casually.

Fred raised an eyebrow but obliged, parking near the entrance. Amy hopped out, returning a few minutes later with a triumphant smile and a shopping bag swinging at her side.

“What did you get?” Fred asked, glancing at her curiously as she slid back into her seat.

“You’ll see,” she said with a sly grin, tucking the bag under her legs.

After supper, instead of gathering around the TV as they usually did, Amy called Fred and their son into the living room. She stood in front of them, the bag from the drugstore now resting on the coffee table. Her heart raced and she took a steadying breath.

“I have something to say,” she began, her voice calm but firm. Fred and their son exchanged curious looks, waiting for her to continue.

Amy clasped her hands together, her eyes twinkling with a mix of nerves and excitement. “I’ve decided…” She paused, savouring the moment, then smiled. “I’m prepared to cut my hair, Fred. Going bald, I have to think more about that, perhaps we can try get there in stages.”

Fred tilted his head, curiosity crossing his face. “Stages?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Amy said, her grin widening. She leaned forward, her fingers brushing the edge of the bag. “I was thinking we could start with an undercut. Just shave the bottom section, leave the rest long. We’ll try it out for a while and see how it suits me—and how it suits you two.” She shot her son a playful look, and he grinned back.

Her son was the first to react, practically bouncing in his seat. “That would look so cool, Mom! Like a rock star or something.”

Fred chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Well, it’s your hair,” he said, his tone teasing but warm. “If you want to take baby steps, I’m not going to argue. An undercut’s not such a drastic change.”

Amy raised an eyebrow. “You say that now, but wait until you’re the one holding the clippers.”

Fred laughed, and their son’s grin only grew wider. “Can I help?” the boy asked eagerly.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Amy said with a laugh, reaching into the bag and pulling out a set of hair clippers she’d bought earlier. “First, let’s figure out who’s brave enough to get it straight.”

Fred picked up the clippers, examining them with mock seriousness. “Well, if this is happening, I guess I’d better not mess it up. No pressure, right?”

“No pressure at all, and definitely not tonight.” Amy said, her tone light but her heart thudding with anticipation. She ran a hand through her hair again teasingly, steeling herself for what was soon to come.

Saturday afternoon arrived, bringing with it an air of anticipation. Amy’s insistence on waiting had only heightened the excitement, though Fred and their son had been reluctant to postpone the big event. The kitchen was transformed for the occasion: chairs were cleared, towels were laid out, and the tools of transformation—clippers, razor, and shaving supplies—were neatly arranged on the table.

Amy stood in front of them, her hair already prepped. She had clipped and sectioned the hair she wanted untouched, pinning it neatly to the top of her head. The path was deliberate, marking a line just above her ears, framing the undercut she envisioned.

“This is not an undercut, it is an under shave, the result will be what I expect my whole head to be like in due course,” Amy announced firmly, turning to Fred and her son. “I want to feel what it’s like to have smooth, shaved skin on my head. I need to know how it looks and feels—no surprises later.”

Fred grinned, eager to begin. “Fair enough,” he said, picking up the clippers and flicking them on. The buzzing filled the room, blending with the nervous energy hanging in the air. Amy sat down, a large towel draped around her shoulders, and leaned slightly forward.

“Remember,” Amy said, glancing back at Fred with a teasing smile, “no higher than the line I’ve parted.”

“I promise,” Fred assured her, adjusting his grip on the clippers. He placed them gently at the nape of her neck and slowly pushed upward. With each pass, more of Amy’s honey-blond hair fell away, revealing soft, pale stubble beneath. The contrast was striking.

After a few careful swipes, Fred stepped back, handing the clippers to his son .“Your turn, buddy,” he said. The boy’s eyes widened with excitement as he took them.

“Not too high,” Fred reminded him, guiding his hand. Their son worked cautiously, making shorter passes lower on her neck, the sound of the clippers steady and rhythmic. Amy sat still, her lips pressed into a thin line, determined to experience the moment fully.

Fred took the clippers back to finish the job, blending the edges and ensuring the line was precise. In minutes, the undercut was complete, the exposed portion of Amy’s scalp dotted with fine stubble.

“Ready for the razor?” Fred asked, holding up the shaving gel.

Amy nodded, her voice steady but tinged with nervous excitement. “Let’s do it.”

Fred spread the gel evenly over the freshly clipped section, massaging it into a thick lather. The coolness against her skin sent a shiver down her spine, and she closed her eyes, focusing on the sensations. Fred picked up the razor, carefully pulling the blade across the stubble. The first swipe left nothing behind but smooth, bare skin.

“Wow,” Fred muttered under his breath as he worked, his strokes meticulous and steady, rinsing the instrument regularly. With each pass, more of Amy’s scalp was revealed, gleaming under the kitchen light. His excitement grew as the transformation took shape.

Amy, for her part, remained still, her thoughts swirling. She had chosen not to watch the process, determined to experience it in stages as she had planned. She couldn’t see what was happening behind her, but the sound of the razor and the faint tugging sensation told her enough.

“How’s it going?” she asked at one point, her voice light but curious.

“You’ll see,” Fred said, his tone warm and teasing. “Almost there.”

Fred wiped away the last of the lather and stepped back, admiring his work. The undercut was pristine, the shaved section smooth and reflective under the light. It was bold, striking, and undeniably unique.

“All done,” he said, stepping aside. Their son leaned over, inspecting his mother’s head with wide eyes.

“Mom, it’s awesome, wow, Wow, WOW!” he exclaimed.

Amy stood, feeling a rush of nerves as she reached back to touch the freshly shaved area. Her fingers brushed against the smooth skin, and she let out a small gasp. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before—soft, cool, and strange but oddly exhilarating, and it was all hers.

She turned to Fred and their son, her hand still on her head. “Well?” she asked, her voice half-teasing, half-nervous. “What do you think?”

Fred smiled broadly, his eyes gleaming with pride. “I think it’s incredible,” he said. “You’re incredible.”

Amy couldn’t help but laugh, a mix of relief and satisfaction bubbling up. The first step was complete, and though she wasn’t sure what the next would be, she knew one thing for certain—turning back now would be hard.

Amy quickly learned that maintaining a smooth-shaved undercut required consistency. While Fred had eagerly volunteered to help, the reality of daily upkeep proved too demanding for his schedules and Amy did not feel confident enough with the razor in that position to attempt it herself. They settled on every other day for now, but she knew that if she ever went fully bald, it would be a daily commitment, one she would then be able to tackle too.

As she adjusted to her new look, Amy found herself unexpectedly enjoying the routine. The act of having Fred shave her undercut became almost ritualistic—intimate and grounding. She loved the sensation of smooth skin under her fingertips, and more than once, she caught herself absentmindedly rubbing the back of her head, marvelling at the boldness of her decision. She now moved around the house with her hair in a ponytail, fully exposing her shaved areas for all to see. She even ventures to the mall shortly to gauge acceptance and was surprised at the little response she received.

Amy had a plan. She wanted each stage of her transformation to align with the progress of her new tattoo sleeve. That meant the next step wouldn’t happen until the outlines were completed, which would likely take about two weeks. It gave her time to fully prepare for the next stage of her hair journey.

Over the next few days, Amy found herself drawn to the mirror more often. She loved the way the undercut accentuated her features, giving her an edgy yet elegant look. She couldn’t resist rubbing the bare skin, relishing the tactile pleasure and the sense of daring it gave her, especially when she wore her hair up.

Her growing fondness for the look made her think seriously about the final step. The idea of going completely bald no longer felt daunting—it felt inevitable. Being bald would be more than just a bold statement; it would be a daily reminder of her step into uncharted territory.

She knew there would be challenges, none more daunting than facing her parents. Her mother still struggled to accept both her daughters’ love for tattoos, often making thinly veiled comments about “body art” at family gatherings. How would they react to Amy showing up with a completely shaved head? She could almost hear her mother’s exasperated sigh, the likely questions about why she couldn’t “just leave well enough alone.”

But the more Amy thought about it, the more she realized that her parents’ reactions mattered less than they once had. She was proud of the person she was becoming. The idea of going fully bald didn’t feel like rebellion; it felt like freedom.

One evening, as she stood in front of the mirror after her latest shave, Fred came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“You seem happy,” he said, resting his chin on her shoulder.

Amy leaned into him, his hand grazing the smooth curve of her head. “I know,” she said softly, a small smile playing on her lips. For the first time, she truly believed it.

As the date for the final filling-in of her sleeve approached, Amy found herself grappling with unexpected hesitation. The idea of going fully bald still intrigued her, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to take that leap just yet. Her plan for a steady, staged transformation was working well, but she felt the need for an intermediate step—something bold yet not final.

One afternoon, Amy took matters into her own hands. By the time her son arrived home from school, she was waiting for him in the living room. She stood casually, hands on her hips, her lips curled in a playful smile.

“Hey, Mom, I—” He stopped mid-sentence, his jaw dropping. “Whoa! What happened to your hair?”

Amy laughed, running a hand over the flat top that now crowned her head. “You like it?” she teased.

“It’s awesome!” he exclaimed, bounding over to inspect the precise, perfectly levelled top. The back and sides were cleanly shaved down to bare skin, the sharp contrast highlighting the structured, inch-high plateau of hair above. He reached out tentatively, and she nodded, giving him permission. He grinned as he ran his hand over the stiff, springy strands. “It’s so cool. Like, if I pushed it, it’d snap right back.”

Amy chuckled. “That’s the idea.”

Fred arrived home shortly after, stepping through the door and stopping in his tracks when he saw her. “Wow,” he said, his eyes widening as he took in her new look. “You went for a flat top?”

Amy tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What do you think?”

Fred hesitated, then grinned. “I love it, but… I wish I’d been the one to cut it off.”

She shrugged, stepping closer. “I needed a professional to get it perfect the first time,” she said, turning her head to show off the razor-sharp lines and gleaming sides. “Besides, you’ll have plenty of chances to maintain the sides.”

Fred laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Fair enough. It’s… definitely striking.”

Amy smiled against his chest. “It’s not staying for long,” she reminded him. “Just a step before the final stage.”

The following week, Amy arrived at her brother-in-law’s studio for the final tattoo session. Her sister greeted her at the door, but her usual casual demeanour gave way to wide-eyed surprise.

“Whoa, Amy! Look at you!” she exclaimed, gesturing to the flat top. “What brought this on?”

Amy grinned, running a hand over her erect hair. “Felt like trying something different. It’s just temporary, though—I’ve got bigger plans.”

Her sister shook her head in amazement. “You’re really committing to this transformation, huh?”

“You could say that,” Amy replied with a wink. She stepped inside, drawing more attention as the studio staff and clients took in her bold new look.

Her brother-in-law approached, his tattoo gun in hand. He grinned broadly, shaking his head. “Amy, you’re full of surprises. That flat top is sharp. Suites you perfectly.”

“Thanks,” she said, settling into the chair. “It’s definitely draws people’s attention.”

As he worked on the final filling-in of her sleeve, Amy felt a renewed confidence in her decision. The flat top was a bold move, one that signalled her evolving self-image while giving her a taste of the boldness she’d need to go fully bald

When Amy’s parents saw her flat top, to say they were shocked was an understatement. They strongly berated her to the extent of being rude, speaking to her as if she were a preteen, especially her mother’s inevitable gasp and sharp questions. Her parents had been slow to accept the tattoos, first her sister’s and then hers, their disapproval often simmering just beneath polite conversation. She knew they’d not react any better to her shaved head when that she finally decided if she was going to take that last step. Her parent’s reaction to her flat top disgusted her, she had not expected any support but to be treated like a child infuriated her. This was all she needed to push her over the edge and made her decide that she was definitely going to have her head shaved completely bald.

The thought gave her a thrill of rebellion but also a pang of anxiety. Now it did not matter if they ever truly accept her for who she was becoming? This is me. Take it or leave it.

When the session was over, Amy looked at her completed sleeve with awe. The vibrant colours and intricate designs brought the entire piece to life. The tattoo was more than artwork; it was a masterpiece.

As she walked out of the studio, the late afternoon sun caught the shine of her freshly shaved sides and the perfect flat of her hair. She caught her reflection in the glass door and smiled. She was proud of what she saw—a woman unafraid to take risks, unapologetically embracing change.

Amy and Fred walked through the door that evening, her right arm still carefully wrapped in protective film. Their son rushed over, eyes wide with excitement as he inspected her newly completed sleeve through the transparent film. “That’s amazing, Mom!” he said, tracing the intricate lines and vibrant colours with his finger, careful not to touch the healing skin.

“Thanks, kiddo,” Amy replied with a smile, adjusting the wrap slightly.

But his attention soon shifted upward. “So… when are you going to change the flat top to a smooth top?” he asked innocently, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

Amy hesitated, glancing at Fred. “Not yet,” she said with a small smile. “Maybe when this arm has fully healed.”

Fred nodded, but Amy caught the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He’d been patient, but she knew he was eager for her to be finally bald as he had wished for. She wasn’t ready to give him the moment just yet, he would have to be patient a little longer.

Two weeks passed. For the last week Amy left her flat top untouched, letting the white wall grow slightly rougher at the edges. The once-precise shaved sides softened into a faint shadow, a reminder that change was on the horizon. Fred didn’t press her, but she could sense his impatience bubbling beneath the surface.

One night, as they lay in bed, the room quiet save for the rhythmic hum of the ceiling fan, Amy turned to Fred and whispered, “I think tomorrow is the day.”

Fred shifted onto his side, his gaze steady and searching. “Are you sure?” he asked gently, his voice low with both surprise and excitement.

Amy nodded, her expression firm but calm. “Yes. I want to feel what it’s like to have no hair at all. To look in the mirror and not recognize myself for a moment. To see someone new staring back at me.”

Fred’s hand found hers beneath the sheets. “That’s… a big step,” he said, his tone full of admiration. “You’ve come so far.”

“I know,” she said softly. Her voice grew more determined as she continued. “When you shave me, Fred, I want it to be perfect. I want to revel in the moment, to feel like I am fully embracing this transformation. When I look in the mirror, I want my head to shine. Not just smooth—I mean gleaming, like a polished diamond.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling. “Even if it’s so close I feel razor burn. I want it to be bold. Perfect.”

Fred stared at her for a long moment, marvelling at her determination—not just her appearance, but her spirit. Only a few months ago, she had balked at the mere suggestion of shaving her head. Now, she was embracing it with confidence, dictating the conditions with purpose and enthusiasm.

“You’ve thought this through,” Fred said, his voice tinged with awe.

“I have,” Amy said simply. “This is for me. I want to finish what I started, but I want it done right. Tomorrow, no half-measures.”

Fred leaned in and kissed her forehead, his admiration clear. “You’re amazing, Amy,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll make sure it’s perfect.”

Amy smiled as she settled back against the pillows, her heart racing with a mix of nerves and excitement. Tomorrow, she would become someone new—not just on the outside, but in the way she saw herself. They made love, Fred hoping that this might be the last time he had sex with a woman with hair, albeit very short. Amy enjoyed the moment, holding him back as she thought, the next time I will be bald and I want your hands all over my smooth scalp.

Fred woke before Amy the next morning, careful not to disturb her. He busied himself preparing the bathroom, laying out the clippers, razors, shaving gel, and a small bottle of scalp moisturizer that promised a “brilliant shine.” The morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow over the makeshift station.

When Amy joined him, her hair still in its flat top although somewhat dishevelled, she smiled at the sight of the instruments. “You’ve been busy,” she said, running her fingers over the tools on the counter.

“Only the best for you,” Fred said with a wink. “Are you ready?”

Amy took a deep breath, her hands brushing over her short, upright strands one last time. “More than ready,” she said, her voice steady. She ran her hands over her tattooed arms, smiling as she looked down at the array of colours and patterns. “One bald tattooed lady coming up, or is it one tattooed bald lady…..” she said laughlingly.

Fred draped a towel around her shoulders and clicked on the clippers, the now familiar hum filling the air. He placed them at her crown and made the first pass, Amy closed her eyes, feeling the vibration as her remaining hair fell away. Each stroke revealed more of her scalp, the coolness of the room mingling with the warmth of the bare skin beneath.

When the clippers finished their work, Fred lathered her head with shaving gel, the cool foam making her shiver slightly. The razor followed, its precision leaving her skin smooth and flawless. Fred worked meticulously, ensuring every inch was perfect. When he finished, he applied the moisturizer, gently rubbing it into her scalp until her head gleamed like polished marble.

Amy opened her eyes and turned to the mirror. For a moment, as predicted, she barely recognized the reflection staring back at her. Her smooth, shining scalp caught the light, accentuating the contours of her face and the boldness of her tattoos. She gasped softly, her hand flying to her head as she touched the silky smoothness. Her deep red nails, painted for the occasion, contrasting against the whiteness of her scalp.

“Well?” Fred asked, his voice full of anticipation.

Amy turned to him, her eyes bright with tears and a wide grin on her face. “It’s… incredible,” she said, her voice full of awe. “I feel… powerful.”

Fred pulled her into a hug, his pride evident. “You are powerful,” he said softly. “And beautiful.”

Amy looked back at the mirror, marvelling at her reflection. This was who she had become—bold, unapologetic, and unafraid. And she felt completely and utterly free.

Their son, who had silently observed every pass of the clippers and the precise swipes of the razor, could no longer contain himself. As Fred wrapped Amy in an embrace, their son darted forward and joined in, his arms encircling his mother’s waist. His small hand reached upward, hesitating for just a moment before it made contact with her freshly shaven scalp.

Amy smiled as she felt his touch, light and tentative at first, then more deliberate as his fingers explored the smooth surface. “It’s so cool,” he whispered, awe in his voice. “Mom, it’s exactly like I imagined.”

Amy’s heart swelled. She hadn’t realized how much her transformation had resonated with her son. “You’ve been imagining this for a while, haven’t you?” she asked, stroking his hair gently.

He nodded, a little sheepishly. “Yeah… ever since we talked about it that day, and we looked at pictures together.” He hesitated before adding, “I’ve always thought it’d look awesome. And it does. Way better than I imagined.”

Fred smiled down at their son, then back at Amy. “Well, kiddo, your mom definitely pulls it off, doesn’t she?”

“Totally,” their son said, his grin widening.

Amy laughed, her hand covering his on her scalp. “Alright, mister,” she teased, “you’re not going to get tired of rubbing my head, are you?”

“Never!” he exclaimed. “It’s the coolest thing ever.”

Amy took a deep breath, her emotions swirling as she looked down at her son’s bright, eager face. After a moment, she asked, “So… do you think I should ever grow it back?”

The question caught him off guard. He blinked, then shook his head quickly. “No way,” he said earnestly. “You look so cool like this. I don’t want you to have hair again.”

Fred, standing beside them, raised an eyebrow at the unexpected question. “That’s… an interesting way to put it,” he said, his tone thoughtful. He turned to Amy, his gaze soft and steady. “What about you? What do you want?”

Amy met his eyes, her hand moving back to her scalp as she considered the question. The smoothness, the shine, the way it made her feel—it all felt so right. She glanced at her son, then back at Fred.

“What if I didn’t want to grow it back?” she asked softly.

Fred smiled, leaning in to kiss her never ending forehead, the contact sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. “Then I’d love you bald forever,” he said simply. “But it’s your choice. Always.”

Amy let out a soft laugh, looking at both of them. “It’s funny,” she said, her voice tinged with wonder. “A few months ago, I couldn’t even imagine this. Now…” She paused, her hand running over her scalp again. “Now I’m starting to think that maybe… maybe this is just who I am.”

Fred’s expression turned tender. “You’ve come a long way, Amy. And you’ve never looked more beautiful.”

Her son nodded eagerly in agreement, his hand still resting on her head. “You’re the coolest mom ever.”

Amy felt her heart fill with love and pride. It was dawning on her that this moment was more than just a milestone—it was the beginning of something enduring. The razor and the shine of her scalp weren’t just temporary symbols of change; they were something she was ready to embrace fully.

She smiled at her husband and son, her two biggest supporters. “Alright, then,” she said with a playful grin. “It looks like you two are stuck with a bald wife and mom for a very long time.”

Fred laughed, pulling her close again. “We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As her son snuggled in beside her, still marvelling at her smooth head, Amy felt a wave of contentment wash over her. This was her new normal—and embraced wholeheartedly by the people she loved most.

Amy’s visit to her parents was tense from the moment she stepped through the door. She had prepared herself for some level of discomfort—they’d never fully accepted their daughter’s tattoos—but the reality was harsher than she anticipated.

Her mother froze when she saw her, her eyes widening in disbelief as they lingered on Amy’s gleaming scalp. Then came the tears, falling freely as she shook her head in despair. “Amy,” she sobbed, her voice cracking, “what have you done to yourself?”

“Mom—” Amy began, trying to explain, but her mother cut her off.

“No!” she cried, throwing her hands up. “This is too much! The tattoos were bad enough, but this? Shaving your head? What kind of person are you? How could you do this to yourself? To us?”

Amy’s chest tightened, but she forced herself to stay calm. “Mom, this is my choice. It’s who I am now.”

Her mother glared at her, her face flushed. “Well, I don’t want anything to do with it. This…madness, this baldness. It’s unnatural! You look like—like someone I don’t even recognize anymore!”

Amy flinched but held her ground. “I’m still your daughter. That hasn’t changed.”

Her father, sitting silently in his chair, let out a long sigh. “It’s not just you being bald,” he said, his tone heavy with disappointment. “It’s everything. The tattoos. This… need to stand out.” His frown deepened as his eyes flicked to Fred. “And you,” he added pointedly. “You’re supposed to be her husband. What were you thinking, letting her do this?”

Fred’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Amy doesn’t need my permission,” he said evenly. “She’s her own person. And I think she’s beautiful.”

The words didn’t seem to soothe either parent. Amy’s mother shook her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks, while her father’s scowl grew darker.

Even their grandson wasn’t spared. When he tried to defend his mother, proudly declaring how much he loved her new look, his grandmother turned her ire on him. “You’re just a child,” she said sharply. “What do you know about any of this? You’re supposed to respect your family, not encourage your mother’s… eccentricities.”

The boy shrank back for a moment, but then he straightened his shoulders and stood his ground. “I do respect her,” he said firmly. “She’s awesome. You’re wrong. I love the way she looks now and respect her, I always will.”

Amy placed a protective hand on her son’s shoulder, her heart aching at the tension. She turned to her parents, her voice steady. “I’m sorry you feel this way. I was hoping you could accept me for who I am, but I can see that might take time.”

Her father muttered something under his breath, and her mother waved her off, turning away. Amy sighed, squeezing her son’s shoulder gently. “Let’s go,” she said to Fred, who nodded and ushered their son toward the door.

Back at home, Amy found solace in the acceptance of her friends. They had taken her transformation in their stride, welcoming her boldness with admiration. While some had harboured private opinions, they knew better than to voice any critique. Times had changed, and social etiquette dictated respect for personal choices.

Even more surprising was her son’s growing popularity among his peers. His friends were captivated by Amy’s striking look, flocking to their house whenever they had the chance. “Your mom’s so cool,” they often said, staring at her in awe. “She’s not afraid of anything.”

Amy couldn’t help but smile at their wide-eyed fascination. She was used to adults being polite or even distant, but the unfiltered admiration of children was refreshing. Her son thrived under the attention, proud to have a mom who wasn’t afraid to break the mold.

One evening, as she stood in front of the mirror, she ran her hands over her smooth scalp. The initial shock of seeing herself bald had given way to a deep sense of pride. She didn’t just like her new look—she loved it.

“Not everyone’s going to understand,” Fred said from behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “But the people who matter? They see you for who you are.”

Amy leaned into him, a small smile playing on her lips. “And I finally see me, too,” she said softly. “And I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

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