Well, I finally did it. (A True Story)
The weather’s been absolute shit, lately, so I’m at a loss to tell everyone why I did what I did, when I did it, lol.
I looked out the window of my office, grimacing as the snow piled up around the house, slowly covering the grass, which eventually disappeared beneath the blanket of white. The book I’m working on takes place in the summer, so It’s difficult getting myself into the mood. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block, just an obstacle that needs to be overcome.
My wife popped in, wondering how things were going, and after failing to answer her, she tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, you?”
“Sorry.” Snapping out of my funk. “This weather is just the worst.”
“Why don’t you read me what you have, and maybe that will help.” She suggested, always being my best editor and critic.
After having read the three pages I had managed in the current chapter, she stopped me. “I can tell your head’s just not into this. You should give it a break.”
“In other words, it’s rubbish,” I stated, frankly.
“Not to put too fine a point on it…”
“You’re right, you know. I need to get out of the house.” I blurted.
“Well, this is getting a little scruffy.” She remarked, running her fingers over my ever-lengthening mop, that had migrated over my ears and down to my collar in the back. “Why don’t you stop down to Hebb’s and get a haircut.”
“That’s a good excuse to get out of the house, I suppose.” I mused. She kissed me upside-down as I leaned my head back to look at her. I’ve been blessed with a partner that adores my penchant for short hair. She knows and frequently reads my postings on this site. Although never judging me for how risqué the storylines can be sometimes, she still wonders how I come up with some of my bizarre ideas.
She often accuses me of being far more kinky on paper than in the bedroom. ‘Don’t you ever get any ideas.’ She warns me, afraid for her own shoulder-length locks.
“Why don’t you come with me? Hebb could trim you up.” I suggested.
“All fantasies aside, there’s no way you’ll ever get me into a barber’s chair.” She chortled. My wife has always been quite feminine and comes with those accoutrements. Her once-a-month trips to the salon seem almost religious to her.
I cannot tell a lie. I have indeed fantasized about seeing her helplessly caped, her luscious blonde curls swept away with a few deft passes of an Oster 76. But, fantasies they must remain. As strange and unusual my stories can be, I would never force her into something that she wasn’t willing to do. One must separate fiction from reality, as painful as that may seem.
Being a Tuesday afternoon, Hebb’s barbershop was nearly deserted, and I began to wonder if he may be closed. The weather wasn’t prohibitively bad, but enough snow had fallen to make the roads a bit slippy.
Finding the front steps shoveled, I was pleased when I saw Hebb’s friendly face peering out at me through the frosted windowpane.
“Claire.” He smiled. “What brings you out on this blustery day?”
“Well,” I ran my fingers through my curly blonde hair. “I need to get rid of this.” I tugged.
“I can help you with that.” He grinned, dusting off his chair with the cape. It was clearly a customary gesture as the place was impeccably clean. Holding the cape out like a matador, he ushered me in.
There’s something so comforting and yet nerve-wracking about being caped. It’s like there’s no escape, in a way. Once that crepe has been stretched around my neck and cinched tightly by the soft linen of the cape, I slip into a different mindset. I guess one might equate it with a simple form of bondage, as benign as it might seem.
With my mind already in a flurry over my inability to put two coherent sentences together, I suddenly felt emboldened. “I don’t know, Hebb. I need a change here.”
“Well, there’s change, and then there’s… change.” He offered, leaning back against the counter that housed all his equipment, the mirror reflecting the tightly clipped hair on the back of his head.
At first glance, one might tend to be put off by a barber who sported a crewcut, but Hebb was nothing if not kind and supportive. He never pushed, and always asked twice before cutting.
“I need a real change, Hebb.” I insisted, pulling out one of the longer strands of hair that fell over my forehead.
“Well, then, I hope you brought a hat.” He smiled.
There is that point when you’ve made the decision to do something drastic, and then there’s that la grange between thought and action. So, as Hebb cleaned his clippers, there was that little voice that tried to speak reason to me. What would Terry think? What would my friends think? I’ve got a book signing in three weeks, etc, etc.
After that, there is that moment of truth. That moment when the barber looks me in the eye, his clippers poised at the top of my forehead, the humming blades hidden under my downy curls.
“It’s a two. You sure?” He asked, earnestly, knowing I knew exactly what a two was, and how short they cut.
After a very brief moment, I looked up and met his eyes with my own. “I’m sure.”
Then there is that feeling of elation and dread combined into an almost sexual response, as the clippers change pitch, the blades reducing my curls to stubble. I love that feeling. It’s hard to describe what it does to me, but it is most definitely addictive.
I watch in the mirror as my once overabundant curls fall over the cape to the floor. As anyone with light blonde hair can attest, cutting it that short generally results in looking almost bald. I couldn’t help but crack a smile as the entire top of my head was cleared.
With no hesitation at all, Hebb peeled the back and sides with the same efficiency as he had the top. Admittedly, I found it difficult to grow truly aroused as a man cut my hair, but knowing Hebb as well I did, I slipped a little. As the last of my hair hit the floor, I had to fight the urge to sigh, out loud.
I looked at myself, the shape of my skull mimicked by the closely cropped blonde bristles. Turning my head side to side, I examined the look. I knew this look. In my youth, I had sacrificed my hair as a gesture of solidarity. My baseball team routinely had their hair buzzed as an end-of-the-season thing. This was close, but not quite as short.
“Let’s go one more,” I said, boldly.
“Claire? Are you sure?” Hebb asked, his head cocked questioningly. “I have a one and a half that…”
“A one will be fine, Hebb.” Suddenly, in for a dime, in for a dollar, I turned directly towards him. “What’s the shortest blade you have?”
Taken aback, Hebb’s eyes grew wide, and he stepped away; back to leaning against the counter. I heard the door open behind me, the cold breeze from outside chilling my already exposed scalp. In the mirror, I saw two boys walk in, slipping numbers off the rack and hanging their coats in unison. They looked like brothers.
“I have a triple zero, but Claire…”
“That’s it.” I settled. “I said I needed a change, Hebb.” Suddenly way braver than I ever imagined I would be. I felt like a character in one of my stories, especially with the boys watching in the mirror.
“Well, bald is most definitely a change.” He chuckled. He picked up a very fancy-looking clipper that was guilted with what looked like gold. It was very different than the others, its workings exposed in a sort of skeletonized fashion.
“I normally use these for trimming and line work.” He explained, showing me the cordless machine. It was almost a work of art, to be honest. He took a moment to closely inspect my scalp through my existing hair.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, thinking I knew the answer.
“Moles. I don’t want to cut you.” Hebb explained. At my puzzled look, he continued. “That’s how close these cut, Claire.”
I suddenly realized what I was asking for. This was going to make my baseball buzz seem tame. What was I thinking? I was a teenager and was barely able to pull off the look. A woman my age with a shaved head? For a second, the words were hovering at the tip of my tongue. Then, just as quickly a quiet resolve swept over me, and it was settled.
Hebb surprised me when he failed to ask before plunging the ornate clippers into my already abbreviated hairline. The results were immediate and stark. The difference between a number two buzz and shaved may only be a quarter of an inch, but seeing my completely naked scalp in the clipper’s wake was startling.
Where once was a fine pelt of blonde fur, my jet white scalp shone plainly in absolute contrast. There was no going back now. I was going to be a bald girl, and just as in so many of my stories, witnessed by an amused audience.
I couldn’t help but see the boys tittering amongst themselves as they watched. For the first time in my life, I felt the unmistakable tingle of humiliation as the blades slowly and carefully rendered me bald. Was this really happening to me? Suddenly, all the different characters I had done this to, came rushing into my head. I couldn’t avoid becoming aroused. Cynthia, Tina, Leila, Sarah, and so many others; I was the literal embodiment of those imagined girls.
Finally, the soft buzz of the trimmers was silenced, and I stared blankly at my reflection in the large plate glass mirror. There was nothing but skin. My barely perceptible blonde eyebrows were the only thing that prevented me from appearing entirely alien.
Hebb looked over at the boys, and then back at me. “Shall I finish?”
I knew exactly what he meant by that. I was close, but knew that there was still an imperceptible stubble coating my head. “I’ve come this far, Hebb. Give me the works.” I knew that it was entirely unnecessary. All the shaving would do was feed my fetish. But then again, this entire process was about feeding that fetish.
I shuddered as the hot towel was removed from my head, the cold air in the shop stimulating every nerve ending in my spine. Then, as the hot lather was applied, I felt as though I might melt into the chair. This was beyond anything I had written about. This was happening to me.
The rasping of the blade wasn’t nearly as erotic as I had imagined, and had depicted as such. Rather, it was the idea of what was happening that was stimulating. When this was over, I wouldn’t have anything left. Would I really like it, or would the reality be more than I could handle?
I knew the moment was coming. That moment when I reached up and confirmed what I was seeing in the mirror; the tactile sensation of smooth scalp. I was almost afraid of my reaction. What if I hated it? Would I ever be able to write about this experience the same way?
So, as Hebb released me from the bonds of his cape, the exploration began. My fingers ran up the side of my head, continuing upwards and meeting nothing but skin far softer than that on my face. It felt cold, exposed, strange, and sensually clammy. Then I realized that I indeed loved it. Both hands flew up, encasing my naked scalp in my clasped fingers, the full impact of the experience hitting me like a ton of bricks. “Wow,” was all I managed. The boys giggled, however innocently observing my surprise.
“You like?” Hebb asked, nervously.
“I love.” I grinned. I paid him, for what perhaps was, a once in a lifetime cut. Giving the boys a sideways smile, I shrugged on my coat. Noticing I indeed had no hat, Hebb offered me one of his.
“You’ll want this.” He offered, the woolen cap in his outstretched hand.
“Thanks, Hebb, I’ll be fine. Might as well get used to it.”
Once outside, the cold air instantly caused my scalp to contract, and it felt incredibly strange. I hurried to my car, hoping that the motor was still warm enough to generate some heat.
Looking in the rearview mirror, I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Terry is going to kill me.”
So, as I sit and write this account, I am three days out from my shaving. My wife’s reaction was, well, predictable. At first, she scolded me, but as she got used to it, seemed to grow more tolerant. Now, as if in some sort of reenactment of my stories, Terry is going to shave my head for the first time, herself. I’m incredibly excited, and plan to be au-naturel for the experience. Who knows, I might get lucky.
There are experiences, and then there are life-changing experiences. I think the shaving of my head would be categorized as the latter. It was probably something I had to do in my life, considering my fetish. Let me say that living the experience has opened my eyes. I will never be able to write about this the same way again. I have, perhaps, shared too much, but you’ll forgive me that, I think. Seeing is believing, yes, but the experience is the epitome of knowledge.
Thanks for sharing this with me.