Red Bob
The grade-two didn’t feel as shocking the next morning.
It felt… good.
I noticed it in the bathroom, half-asleep, brushing my teeth. I caught my reflection and didn’t flinch. If anything, I stood a bit straighter without thinking about it.
Then I touched my head.
The texture was addictive. Soft in one direction, rough in the other. My hand kept drifting up like it had its own plan, and every time it did I got this small, stupid little hit of satisfaction. Like my brain was going, Yep. That’s right.
Tom noticed too, because of course he did.
He didn’t say much at breakfast, but his fingers kept finding the back of my head when he walked past me. Not a grab. Just a touch. Like he was checking it was real.
“Stop doing that,” I said, trying to sound annoyed and not quite managing it.
Tom’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You did.”
“I barely touched you.”
“You’re lying,” I said, and he laughed.
It should’ve been the end of it. A buzzcut. A one-off. A funny story.
Except it didn’t fade into “that thing we did.” It stayed with me.
All day, I caught myself rubbing the sides of my head. Feeling the shape of it. Feeling the air on my scalp when I stepped outside. And feeling, more than anything, how my hair—the thing I’d always treated like a bit of armour—wasn’t doing that job anymore. It was just… short. Honest. There.
By lunchtime, the thought I’d been circling finally landed properly.
I wondered what it would feel like bald.
Not nearly. Not “basically.” Bald. Smooth.
At first it was just curiosity. Clean and simple. Then, annoyingly, it turned into a want.
By late afternoon I’d talked myself in and out of it at least ten times.
It’s too much. People will stare. You’ll look ill. You’ll regret it. It’s dramatic.
And then the other voice, quieter but calmer:
Or it’s just hair. Or it’s just your head. Or it’s just you, deciding something and doing it.
When Tom got home, I tried to act normal.
I made tea. I asked about his day. I listened. I nodded at the right points. But my hands kept creeping up to my head like they were giving me away.
Tom clocked it by the time we’d finished eating.
He leaned back in his chair and looked at me with that patient expression he has when he knows I’m working up to something.
“What’s going on in there?” he asked, tapping his temple once.
I laughed because it was either that or blurt it out too fast. “Nothing,” I lied.
Tom lifted his eyebrows.
I sighed. Properly. Then I said it.
“I keep thinking about shaving it.”
He didn’t react straight away. He just looked at me like he wanted to be sure.
“Bald?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His eyes flicked to my head, then back to my face.
“You mean… smooth?”
“Slick,” I said, then immediately pulled a face because that sounded ridiculous out loud. “I mean—yeah. Smooth.”
Tom stared at me for a second longer than normal.
Then he said, carefully, “Do you want to?”
The question was so simple it made my throat tighten.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I do.”
Tom nodded once, like he’d just accepted new information and it made sense.
“Okay,” he said.
I blinked. “Okay?”
He shrugged, but he had that half-smile again. “Okay. If you want to.”
There was a beat where neither of us moved.
Then he added, quieter, “Do you want me to do it?”
Something in my chest shifted. I nodded. “Yes.”
Tom stood and held his hand out. “Alright then. Come on.”
Upstairs, the clippers were still where we’d left them. I laid a towel down again, automatically. Another one on the floor too, because I’d learned my lesson. Tom disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a packet of disposable razors from the cupboard like he’d been saving them for a rainy day.
“I don’t know if these are any good,” he said, holding them up. “They might be awful.”
“That’s reassuring,” I said, and he laughed.
He plugged the clippers in. The hum filled the room.
“Want me to take it down further first?” he asked.
I swallowed. “Yeah. As close as it’ll go.”
Tom nodded and stepped behind me.
He ran a hand over the top of my head once—like that was just what his hands did now—and then paused, fingers still there.
“What’s the matter, babe?” I asked.
“I have a small request before you shave this off,” he said, rubbing my buzzed head again.
“Which is?” I said, slightly impatient.
“I want to see you with a bleached buzz before this all goes,” he said.
“Really?” I looked up at him, suddenly a little intrigued by the rogue suggestion. “You’d better go to quickly to the supermarket before they shuts.”
And with that, he hurried out of the house in search of a home bleaching kit.
——
While Tom was out, I decided to message Eva.
Trying something new with my hair tonight, I sent.
Then I realised she didn’t even know I’d gone through with the buzzcut, so she’d definitely be in shock when she found out I was bald.
I’d barely put my phone down when I heard the front door open and shut, followed by rushed footsteps up the stairs.
Tom craned his head around the bedroom door and said, “Would you please follow me to the bathroom, madam,” like he was running his own salon.
——
After an hour, I was a very pale blonde. I wasn’t sure what I thought of it. I didn’t really care either. It wasn’t going to be there for much longer.
“Is this what you expected?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, really,” he said.
We both laughed, and I leaned in to kiss him.
“Can you take it off now?” I asked softly.
Tom took off his polo shirt and then reached for the clippers, turning them on. He ran his free hand over the top of my head one final time, and then he began. No guard this time. And the sound changed straight away. Closer. Sharper. More serious.
The blonde stubble fell even finer. I watched in the mirror as my head changed again, the bristle going down to almost nothing. My scalp started to show through—pale in some places, warmer in others.
Tom worked slowly around my ears and the nape of my neck, one hand steadying my head without being heavy about it. Just… there.
When he turned the clippers off, the silence felt weirdly loud.
He tilted my chin gently. “Look.”
I looked.
I was almost bald already. There was still a shadow, but not much. My face looked more exposed. More like me, somehow, with nothing to hide behind.
My heart was thudding.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Tom watched my expression like he was waiting for permission.
“You still want to?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” he said again, calm and steady.
He went into the bathroom and came back with shaving cream, a small bowl of warm water, and the kind of focused expression that made me laugh nervously.
“You’re taking this seriously,” I said.
“I’m trying not to injure my wife,” he replied.
Fair.
He smoothed the cream over my scalp gently. The warmth made me exhale without realising I’d been holding my breath.
He picked up a razor and looked at it like it was going to argue back.
“I’ve never done this,” he said.
“Same,” I said.
Tom’s mouth twitched. “Brilliant.”
He started at the side. Small strokes. Slow. Rinsing the blade between each pass. One hand on my head, steady and careful.
It took time. It couldn’t not take time.
And the strange thing was… I liked that. Not because it was some big “moment.” Just because it was close. Quiet. Because he was being careful, and I was letting him.
I could feel each section as it went smooth. The last shadow of hair disappearing. Skin underneath, cooler and clean. My scalp started to feel awake, like it had suddenly remembered it was part of my body.
Tom kept checking with his palm.
“Is that okay?” he asked more than once.
“Yeah,” I kept saying. “Yeah. It’s good.”
Halfway through, he paused and kissed my temple—careful because of the cream.
It made me laugh, soft and breathy.
“You’re getting emotional,” I teased.
“I’m concentrating,” he said, deadpan.
“Sure.”
He finished the top, then moved to the back. The nape took longer. He muttered under his breath once when a patch wouldn’t behave.
“Do you want me to—” I started.
“No,” he said immediately. “I’ve got it.”
And he did.
When he finally stepped back, he rinsed a cloth and wiped the remaining cream away.
Then he rested both hands on my head.
Nothing between his palms and my skin.
His eyes lifted to mine in the mirror.
There I was. Bald.
Properly bald.
My scalp was already catching the light on the curve of my crown. Clean. Deliberate. Not sad. Not strange. Just… me, turned up a notch.
I stared for a long moment.
Tom didn’t move. Like he was waiting for the verdict.
Then I smiled. Small, real, a little disbelieving.
“Oh my god,” I said quietly.
Tom’s shoulders dropped like he’d been bracing himself the whole time. “Is that a good ‘oh my god’?”
“Yes,” I said, and my voice came out softer than I meant. “It’s a very good ‘oh my god’.”
I touched my head with my own hands and felt nothing but smooth skin. No bristle. No resistance. Just scalp.
It made my stomach flip again. The sensation was almost shocking, like touching a part of myself that had always been covered and I’d never properly met.
Tom’s voice went lower. “You look…”
He stopped, then gave up. “You look unreal.”
I looked at him. Really looked.
His eyes had gone dark in that familiar way. The way that always makes me feel like I’ve done something right without even trying.
“You like it,” I said.
He let out a quiet laugh. “I’m trying to be respectful.”
“Don’t,” I said, and surprised myself with how direct it sounded. “Just… don’t.”
Tom stepped closer and slid his hands over my scalp again, slow, like he couldn’t help himself. His palms warmed my skin. His thumbs traced the curve above my ears.
I inhaled sharply. Not on purpose.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes, as if he was asking without speaking.
I nodded once.
He kissed me.
It started careful, because he’s Tom and he can’t help being careful, but it didn’t stay that way. The second I kissed him back properly, something in him shifted. His hands stayed on my head like he didn’t know what else to do with them, like he needed the feel of it to keep himself steady.
I made a small noise I didn’t mean to make, and he answered it with another kiss, slower and deeper, like he’d decided he was allowed.
When we broke apart, it wasn’t tidy. We were both breathing wrong.
“You okay?” he asked, and it sounded rough.
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
That did it.
His mouth found mine again, and this time his hands moved from my scalp to my shoulders. He paused at the edge of my top, just long enough to look at me.
I lifted my arms.
He took it as permission and tugged it up and off. I reached for his shirt without thinking, my fingers already working at the buttons. He laughed once, under his breath, not because anything was funny, but because he couldn’t believe where we were.
We moved like we knew each other, because we did. We didn’t talk much after that. We didn’t need to.
There was a point where he cupped the back of my head again and held me still, like he wanted me right there, right now, exactly as I was. No hair to hide behind. No distraction. Just skin under his hands and my face tilted up to him.
We ended up in bed without thinking about it. It just happened, one moment after another, all so natural. The room got quieter. The air felt warmer. The sheets shifted. His hands kept returning to my scalp, over and over, like he couldn’t stop confirming it.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t performative. It was close and certain and full of the kind of attention that makes you feel closer than ever.
And afterwards—once we caught our thoughts—we lay there with our breathing slowing down.
My head felt new against the pillow. Cooler. Smoother. Like it belonged to someone braver than I’d been yesterday.
Tom kept touching it without thinking, like his hands hadn’t learned the new rules yet. And every time he did, my body reacted like it was the simplest thing in the world.
We lay there in the dark, calm and close.
“What are you thinking?” Tom asked eventually.
“That I can’t believe I didn’t do it sooner,” I said.
Tom kissed the top of my head—a soft press of lips against bare skin that landed like a promise.
Then, quieter, like he didn’t want to spook the moment, he said, “Don’t grow it back.”
It felt like being wanted in a way I’d forgotten I could be wanted.
With thanks to wozziewoo for their assistance with this chapter
