Red Bob
Six months later, being bald wasn’t a big thing anymore.
It was just my head. Just more visible.
Tom touched it the way he used to touch my waist when he passed me in the kitchen. Absent-minded. Familiar.
That night he packed with the bedroom door open, moving between the wardrobe and the suitcase with that focused expression he gets when he’s trying to be efficient and not enjoying it.
“I’d rather be here than setting off to Hamburg,” he said, folding a shirt. “It’s only a week, though.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and watched him fold everything too neatly, like that might somehow make the week shorter.
“A week is still long,” I said. “Long enough for me to end up with a whole new look.”
I rubbed a hand over my head as I said it, and Tom glanced over his shoulder.
“You won’t.”
“I might. If I’m being denied my private scalp maintenance.”
Tom’s mouth twitched.
“Behave.”
I smiled. “You started it.”
He huffed a laugh, came over, and stood between my knees. His hands found my head automatically, palms warm against my scalp.
“You’ll be fine,” he said.
I nodded, because I knew I’d be fine. It wasn’t the practical side of it that bothered me.
His thumb moved once along my temple.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m not,” I lied.
Tom leaned down and kissed the top of my head, the way he did now when he didn’t quite know what else to do with his affection.
It still landed.
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
I smiled. “That sounds like something people say when it’s going to take ages.”
“It’s a week.”
I nodded again, because he needed me to.
Then he picked up his phone from the bed and frowned at it, like he’d remembered something mid-pack.
“They’re phasing in that new practice,” he said. “They want someone there to keep it smooth.”
“Keep it smooth,” I repeated, and felt my mouth twitch.
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
He shook his head as if he didn’t trust either of us with the conversation and went back to packing.
A day was long enough for my head to stop feeling smooth. A whole week felt excessive.
⸻
When Tom left, the house went quieter straight away.
I tried to keep busy. Work, errands, anything that filled the time.
But my hands kept going to my head.
On the second day, it was still mostly fine. Close enough that I could pretend it didn’t matter.
By the third, the texture had started. That familiar roughness if I went the wrong way. Not enough to look like anything. Enough to feel like something.
By the fifth, it was there properly. A short, dense layer of auburn made my head feel less like skin and more like hair trying to reassert itself.
I didn’t enjoy it.
It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t maybe I could grow it out again.
It was irritation. Restlessness. A constant awareness that there was something on my head that I didn’t want there.
I hadn’t shaved once while Tom was away.
Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t want to.
The shaving had become ours. A quiet ritual. His steady hand. His patience. The way he looked at me when he was concentrating.
Doing it alone would have made it a chore. Efficient. Meaningless. Just me in a bathroom dealing with something I didn’t even want to be dealing with.
So I left it.
And the longer I left it, the clearer the truth became.
I didn’t want to manage this for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to count days. I wanted it gone. Properly. Permanently.
And the thought wasn’t scary.
It was hot.
It hit me one evening in the bathroom, towel around my shoulders, looking at myself in the mirror. Five days of growth. Enough to dull the clean look I loved. Enough to remind me what I was choosing against.
I pictured never dealing with it again. Never feeling that texture creep back. Never having to decide whether tonight was a shave night.
Just bald. Always.
The turn-on settled low in my body like it belonged there. Not frantic. Just steady. Certain.
Tom would miss shaving it. I knew he would. I’d felt it in the way he slowed down, the way he checked with his palm, the way his hands always came back for one more pass even when it was already perfect.
But the ritual didn’t have to disappear.
He could still do the care afterwards. He could still be the one who made my scalp feel looked after. Serums, creams, his hands, his attention.
And there was something about that — keeping him in it, but taking the hair out of it for good — that made me feel even more certain.
I picked up my phone and texted Leanne before I could talk myself out of it.
Can I see you after closing? Private.
She replied almost immediately.
Tomorrow. 7:30. Come as you are.
I stared at the message and felt relief wash through me.
⸻
The next evening I headed down to Second Look. I walked into the salon with five days’ growth and a calm I didn’t have to fake.
It was near closing, the place winding down.
I saw Caira before I saw Leanne.
She was standing near one of the stations with one hand resting lightly against the counter, like she was waiting for someone to finish up, and for a second I didn’t fully take in what I was looking at.
Her hair was shorter.
Much shorter.
The pixie she’d had the last time I saw her — after the donation cut — was gone. In its place was a close buzzcut, soft and even all over, short enough to change her completely. It made her look more open. Clearer. More sure of itself. Her new nose ring complimented her face perfectly.
I slowed without meaning to.
Caira looked up and caught my expression straight away. Her hand went to her head automatically, like she was used to doing that now.
“Hi,” she said, the start of a smile on her face. “You can say it. I know that look.”
I laughed. “Was it that obvious?”
“A bit.”
I went over to her, still looking properly.
“It really suits you,” I said. “I just wasn’t expecting it to be that short.”
Her smile widened.
“Yeah,” she said. “It changed again.”
There was a small pause. Not awkward, exactly. Just careful. We didn’t know each other all that well. We’d met, we’d spoken, but this felt different.
I glanced at her head again.
“Can I ask what happened?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Course.”
She rubbed the top of her head lightly, thinking.
“When you saw me last, I’d just had the donation cut. And at the time that felt huge. Going from all that hair to a pixie already felt like such a big thing that I think everyone — me included — kind of treated it like that was it.”
I nodded.
“Losing my curls was an adjustment,” she said. “Honestly, a real one. I loved my hair before. So for a while I still expected it to be there. I’d go to touch it, or catch myself in the mirror and get that split second of — oh. Right.”
I smiled.
“But once I got used to it, I realised I really liked having short hair. Way more than I thought I would.”
Something in the way she said it made me pay closer attention.
“It felt lighter, obviously. But it was more than that. I’d built my curls up so much in my head. Like they were this huge part of me. Then they were gone, and I was still me. Maybe even more than before.”
That sat quietly between us.
“And I did like the pixie,” she went on. “It wasn’t like I got it and wanted rid of it straight away. It suited me. It felt right then. But once I got used to myself like that, it just kept getting shorter.”
“How?”
She smiled.
“Every time I had it trimmed, I wanted a bit more off. Not because anything was wrong with it. It was more that every shorter version kept feeling right. Maybe more right.”
I nodded. I knew exactly what she meant.
“I think cutting it in the first place kind of broke something open in my head,” she said. “Before that, my hair had always felt tied up with who I was. Then it wasn’t there, and I was still fine.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Caira gave me a quick look, warm and a little relieved.
“And Becky was a big part of it too.”
That caught my attention in a different way.
“She’d been doing my trims out of work once we got together, she sort of took over keeping the pixie in shape. Just little tidy-ups at first. The nape, around the ears, taking it in a bit when it had grown.”
I nodded.
“And because she was the one doing it, she saw the pattern before I properly admitted it. Every time I sat down and said I just wanted it cleaned up, I’d end up asking for it a little shorter.”
I smiled.
“She never pushed,” Caira said. “It wasn’t like that. She just knew. I’d start off saying, ‘just a trim,’ and then five minutes later I’d want the back closer, or the sides tighter, or the top taken down more.”
“That sounds familiar,” I said.
She laughed softly. “Yeah. Becky definitely seemed to think so too.”
I laughed with her.
“She liked me with less hair,” Caira said, quieter now. “Not in a pushy way. Just… she made me feel good about it. And I think being with someone who saw it before I did made it easier to stop pretending I was still trying to keep the pixie.”
I let that sit.
“So one day when I was getting another trim at her house,” she said. “Becky was only just meant to tidy it up.”
I smiled already.
“As the clippers were tidying up my nape, I purposely titled my head into the path of the clippers and allowed then to go up and over my head.’”
“Wow that’s some impulse.” I replied, hooked to her every work
“Becky was stunned at what I’d just done. She just paused,” Caira continued, “She asked me what was I doing.”
“What did you say?” I asked
“That I wanted more than a tidy up?” She smiled, “So she gave me a grade 2 over over.”
I looked at her for a second. “What was that like for you?”
Her hand stayed on her head. “It was incredible, but honestly? It felt like relief.”
That made me smile.
“That was the weird part. I thought after loving my curls for so long, and then getting used to the pixie, buzzing it might feel like too much. But it didn’t. It just felt right straight away.”
“More right than the pixie?”
“Yeah,” she said. “The pixie mattered. I needed it, I think. It got me there. But the buzzcut was the first time it stopped feeling like a stage.”
I nodded.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I get that.”
She looked at me then, properly, and something shifted. Not much. Just enough.
“I thought you might.”
I smiled back.
“Funny, isn’t it? How obvious it feels afterwards.”
Caira laughed softly. “Exactly.”
For a second we were both smiling, and it felt easier than it had a minute ago.
“I did wonder what you’d think when you saw me,” she said.
I laughed. “Well I’ve been there, so there’s no way I could say you’d lost the plot.”
“Good.”
She smiled again, then rubbed a hand over the top of her head, easy and unconscious now.
“It’s a bit addictive.”
That made me smile properly.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. Just wait until you go all the way.” I said giving my stubbly head a playful rub
And for a second, standing there in the middle of the salon, we didn’t need to explain anything else.
Then Leanne’s voice carried from the front.
“If you two are done bonding over scalp choices,” she said, amused, “I am still here.”
I looked over.
There was someone in Leanne’s chair.
A woman under a cape, turning slightly as Leanne worked around the back with clippers. The hair on top was a permed pixie — tight, controlled texture that looked intentionally messy in exactly the right way. The colour was so black under the salon lights.
The sides were being tapered close and neat around the ears. At the back there was just enough length left to read as a soft mullet.
Leanne flicked the clippers off and brushed away loose hairs with a quick, practised hand.
“Hold your chin up,” she said. “I’m finishing the taper.”
The woman lifted her chin, eyes on herself in the mirror like she already knew she looked good.
Leanne’s gaze flicked to me in the reflection. Just a flash of recognition. A small nod that said: wait a second.
I stayed where I was.
Leanne tightened the line at the nape with short, careful passes, then switched the clippers off again.
“There,” she said. “That’s sharp.”
The woman smiled, slow and pleased, and turned her head slightly from side to side, watching the top move while the sides stayed clean.
“That is exactly what I wanted.”
Leanne stepped around and handed her the small mirror for the back.
“No regrets later.”
The woman checked, nodded once, then set the mirror down and finally looked properly at me.
Her eyes went straight to my head.
Not rudely. Just honestly. Bald registering as fact.
“Hi,” she said, friendly.
“Hi.”
She smiled a little wider.
“You really suit it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She tipped her chin slightly, still looking at me like she was placing me.
“My wife and I have both been bald a few times,” she said, casual as anything. “It’s quite addictive.”
Something in my chest loosened.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s exactly it.”
She smiled back and headed to the desk as Leanne followed her.
“Right,” Leanne said, tapping at the card reader. “Go and get your reaction.”
“Oh, I will,” the woman replied.
She paid, pulled on her coat, then looked back at Leanne.
“Same time in six weeks?”
Leanne nodded. “Unless you do something impulsive before then with your wife.”
The woman laughed. “Can’t promise.”
She looked at me again, friendly and open.
“Good luck with your head,” she said, like that was a completely normal thing to say.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling despite myself.
She moved toward the door.
“Hey, Claire,” Leanne called as she reached for the handle. “Text me how it goes with Vesper.”
Claire grinned over her shoulder. “I will.”
The door shut behind her.
Another woman saying it like it was nothing should have felt strange. Instead it was weirdly reassuring.
I was still thinking about the name when I looked back at Leanne.
“Did she say her wife was named Vesper?”
Leanne was already locking up.
“Yeah,” she said. “Wedding planner. Those two have a lot of fun with their hair. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Just thought I recognised the name.”
Leanne turned the sign, checked the lock, then came back toward me with that dry expression she gets when she’s about to say something blunt.
“Right,” she said. “Take a seat.”
Caira gave me a small smile before slipping off to collect her things. Not lingering. Just easier now than she’d been when I’d walked in.
I sat in the chair looking at Leanne’s hair. It was much longer than a 6 month regrowth could realistically manage”
“I see your wearing one of your wigs. I suits you.” I said of the bobbed blonde waves, which were styled glamorously
“Yeah we received some new piece lines, so I fancied giving this one a try.” She said, unfolding the cape.
The cape went on, clipped at my neck out of habit. Leanne didn’t make a joke about it. She stepped behind me and rested her fingertips lightly on the back of my head.
“You left it,” she said.
“Six days.”
Leanne’s mouth twitched. “And you hate it.”
“Yes.”
She nodded once, like that made perfect sense.
“It’s funny,” she said conversationally, “how many clients are shaving their heads lately.”
“Is it?”
“It’s bad for business,” Leanne said. “If everyone goes bald.”
“You’ll be fine,” I said, laughing. “I don’t need hair to still be a client.”
Leanne made a small noise of approval.
“Correct.”
Then she stepped around so I could see her in the mirror.
“Okay,” she said. “Talk to me.”
I looked at myself for a second before answering.
“I want it gone,” I said. “Properly. Permanently.”
Leanne didn’t react. She just looked at me like she was checking whether this was impulse or decision.
“You’re sure.”
“Yes. I don’t want to count days. I don’t want to manage this. I want it to just be clean.”
Leanne nodded once.
“Alright.”
My chest loosened.
“And what’s the actual issue?” she asked. “The texture? The effort? The waiting?”
“All of it. I want it smooth without it turning into a whole event every time.”
Leanne opened a drawer and took out a plain-looking tube.
“This won’t touch follicles,” she said. “It dissolves the hair close to the surface. You’ll feel smoother for longer than shaving. It’s a bridge, not a miracle.”
I stared at it.
“You’re putting that on my head.”
“Yes,” Leanne said. “And you’re going to sit still and do exactly what I say, because scalp skin reacts faster than anywhere else.”
“I can react fast.”
“Not tonight.”
She pulled on gloves and dabbed a tiny amount behind my ear first.
“Patch first. Then a thin layer. Short time. If it stings, you tell me immediately. Not after. Immediately.”
“I will.”
Leanne watched my skin for a moment, then nodded and started smoothing the cream over my scalp in a thin layer, careful around my hairline and eyebrows.
It felt cool at first, then warmer.
Leanne’s eyes stayed on my face in the mirror.
“You alright?”
“Yes.”
“Still fine?”
“Still fine.”
“Good. Stay still.”
When the timer went off, she wiped it away thoroughly with warm water and a cloth. Then rinsed again. Then again. No shortcuts.
After that, I ran my palm over my scalp.
The difference was immediate.
Smoother than shaving. Cleaner under my hand. Less resistance.
I exhaled without meaning to.
Leanne’s mouth twitched.
“There. Bridge.”
“It’s really smooth.”
“It will be,” she replied. “For a few days. Then it grows again. That’s the truth.”
I nodded. I wasn’t asking her to lie to me. I was asking for relief.
She applied a cooling gel afterwards, light and careful.
“And before you decide this is your new personality,” she said, “do not do it at home without patch testing. And do not leave it on longer because you get impatient.”
“I won’t.”
Leanne gave me a look that suggested she’d be checking.
I watched her hands for a moment, and because the silence had started filling up with everything I was thinking, I said the thing that had been sitting there.
“Have you ever thought about buzzing yours?”
Leanne paused and looked up at me in the mirror.
“Mine,” she repeated.
“Yeah. Not as a joke. Just… properly taking it down.”
Leanne’s mouth twitched.
“Is this you trying to recruit me while you’re having a moment?”
“It’s me making conversation,” I said. “But also a little bit, yes.”
She held my gaze for a beat longer than usual.
Then she reached up, hooked two fingers under the front edge of her hair, and lifted.
The blonde wig came away in one smooth motion.
Underneath, her scalp was clean and bare.
I stared at her in the mirror.
Leanne set the wig down on the counter beside her like it was nothing.
“There,” she said. “Happy?”
I blinked.
“When did you—”
“A few weeks ago.”
“So you just wear wigs to work now then?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I don’t. Depends on my mood. Depends if I can be bothered. Depends what kind of day it is.”
I kept staring at her reflection, still catching up.
“Would you have shown me that if I hadn’t asked?”
Leanne picked the wig up, gave it a quick shake, and then placed it on to a mannequin head.
“Probably not.”
“Why?”
She met my eyes in the mirror.
“Because it’s nice to have a secret,” she said. “But it’s nice to share the odd one too.”
I nodded slowly.
Then her expression softened, just a fraction.
“And seeing as you asked.”
I let out a breath. “So I earned it.”
Leanne rolled her eyes.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” I said, immediately proving that I was.
Her mouth pulled into a small smile.
“You asked like someone who actually gets it,” she said. “Not like someone fishing for gossip. So yes. I showed you.”
She tapped the counter once, back in work mode.
“Right. Enough about me. Don’t touch your head for an hour. Let the skin calm down.”
“Okay.”
Leanne checked her phone and exhaled.
“I need to go. I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Of course you do.”
She set the wig back on with practised ease, adjusted it once, then opened the door for me.
“Don’t put anything weird on it,” she said, pointing two fingers at my head.
“I won’t.”
“And don’t blame me when this becomes a trend.”
I laughed. “Look at you.”
Leanne’s mouth twitched. “I’m just trying to appease my clients.”
We stepped out together, the salon dark behind us. She locked up, checked it twice, then looked at me.
“You good?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m really good.”
Leanne nodded once.
“Good.”
Then she headed off down the street, her wig looking completely natural under the streetlights.
I checked my phone as I walked home.
There was a message from Eva.
I did wonder which salon she went to. Her and Vesper had separate stylists. Funny how it was Leanne all this time.
I smiled, warm in my chest, and put my phone away.
⸻
Tom came back the next morning.
Keys in the bowl, shoes by the door, that familiar shuffle as he dropped his bag like he’d been carrying the whole week with him.
“Babe?” he called.
“In here.”
I was in the kitchen, making coffee like it was any other day.
He walked in, still in his jacket, and stopped.
His eyes went straight to my head.
Not because it was bald. He’d seen that a thousand times now.
Because it looked different.
Calmer. Cleaner. Treated.
His gaze lifted to mine.
“What did you do?”
“I found a way to make it easier,” I said. “For now. And I’m not going back to letting it grow.”
For a second he just looked at me, like he was catching up to the fact that I meant it.
Then he stepped closer. His hand went to my scalp immediately, palm warm, fingers spread.
His throat moved.
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
There was something in his face then — not disappointment, not exactly. Just the understanding that this wasn’t a phase anymore. That I wasn’t asking him to help me keep returning to something. I was telling him where I lived now.
And the truth of it lit up in me again, that steady heat. The thought of not having to feel that texture return the way it had all week.
Tom’s eyes darkened in that familiar way, and my body answered like it always did now.
He leaned down and kissed the top of my head.
Then another, slower.
His hand stayed there, like it always did. Like it belonged.
“I missed this,” he said quietly.
I looked at him and smiled.
“I know,” I said. “You’re still allowed.”
Something in his face shifted at that. Small, but real.
His thumb moved once along my temple.
And the rest of the morning went the way it always did when he looked at me like that.
Close.
Certain.
And from that day onward, I stopped thinking of baldness as upkeep.
It was just the shape of my life.
The End…
