women head shaving stories 2026 - Headshave Memories

The sweltering heat of the school holidays had just begun, and the air in the house was thick and still. My sister Shreya and I were slumped under the fan, trying to catch a breeze that felt more like a warm breath. When Priya aunty visited and whispered to my mom, “Give it a thought, Gowri,” I had no idea they were discussing the fate of the hair on my head. The catalyst was Rupa, who burst in later, energized despite the sun. "I just came from Pammi aunty’s parlor," she laughed, gulping down juice. "My brothers Ajay and Vijay had no choice—mom made them get their heads shaved bald. You should see them! It’s so fun to touch their smooth scalps." My mom’s hand absentmindedly gathered my hair, feeling the heat trapped against my neck. "It’s high time you had a haircut," she said softly. "Go to Pammi aunty. I’ve already called her." I walked down the road to the parlor, expecting a standard trim. But the moment I sat in the chair and the cape was snapped tight, the atmosphere changed. Pammi aunty started with scissors, but the conversation quickly shifted to her son, Baldev, who walked in with a glistening, freshly shaved head. "I don’t do regular haircuts anymore," she smiled, as the scissors were replaced by a heavy electric clipper. "I only shave heads now." Before I could protest, she tilted my chin down. The razor started running on my head, a loud, rhythmic buzz that vibrated through my skull. I watched in the mirror as the first long strip of hair fell away, revealing a pale, bare scalp underneath. The sensation was incredible—the cold metal teeth of the clipper dragging from my forehead to my nape, stripping away the heat with every pass. Within minutes, my hair was reduced to a fine, dark stubble. "It feels good, doesn't it?" she whispered. Just then, Shreya and Rupa burst in. "Make it like my brothers!" Rupa cheered. "Make it perfectly bald!" Aunty didn't hesitate. She took a brush and whipped up a thick, white shaving foam, coating my entire head until I looked like I was wearing a snowy cap. Then, she pulled out a traditional straight razor. The shop grew quiet as she held my head steady. I felt the sharp, cold edge of the straight razor landing on my scalp. Scritch. Scritch. She scraped with effortless strokes, moving from the crown down to the ears. Each pass of the razor left behind skin that was shaved smooth and clean. The feeling of the naked blade sliding over the curves of my skull was intense and addictive. To ensure it was perfect, she did a second pass, the razor running over my head against the grain. As she finished, a sudden summer storm broke outside. Huge drops turned into hail falling on the ground, the white icy pellets bouncing off the hot pavement just like the mounds of white foam and hair on the parlor floor. She wiped my head and applied a stinging, cool lotion. When she removed the cape, I couldn't stop staring. My forehead now merged into a flawless, bald scalp that reflected the light. She took my hand and guided it to my own head. Rubbing my smooth shaved bald head felt like touching silk or polished stone. Walking home with the girls, a cool breeze blew, and for the first time in my life, I felt the wind actually "touching" my brain. When we went to buy sweets, Babitha aunty couldn't resist rubbing my head either. "So fair and smooth!" she remarked. The highlight was when my college-going cousins, Sharada and Sridevi, arrived. They weren't shocked; they were delighted. They watched the video Pammi aunty had recorded of the straight razor shave and spent the evening rubbing my bald head, admiring the "cool" look. Over the next few weeks, I became obsessed with the texture. Whenever the tiny, prickly hairs began to sprout, my cousins would notice. "Feeling the heat again?" Sharada didi would ask with a wink. She would bring out the foam and a fresh blade, and I would sit happily as she spent an hour running the razor on my head again, restoring that mirror-like bald scalp. We even took photos where their sweaty faces were pressed against my cool, smooth head, a perfect contrast in the summer heat. By the time school started, I wasn't just used to the bald look—I was proud of it.

Forced headshave stories 2026 Ep2 - Headshave lesson

Well, here I sit waiting for mother. For the first time the bathroom seems larger than ever. She has told me more times than I can remember, “Do NOT put your hair in your mouth. If you continue to eat your hair I will be forced to cut it OFF,” she commanded in her strong but motherly voice. I’ve been doing it for so long and nothing was done to me, so why now? Looking up from where I was sitting, I saw mom bring a tall stool. She placed it in front of the large mirror—the one dad uses to watch himself when he performs his own morning shaving routine. Pointing to the stool she told me, “Get yourself comfortable, young lady. I will be back with the clippers.” I climbed up, looking at my long locks in the mirror for what I feared was the last time. When she returned, she didn't just have clippers. She put down a can of shaving cream and a straight razor. My heart sank. This wasn't just going to be a haircut; this was going to be a total headshave. “Well, young lady… You were warned. Maybe when your friends see you as a baldgirl, you will finally learn,” she said, plugging in the clippers. I looked at her, almost in tears. When the clippers hummed to life, she called out, “John, do you have anything to say to Annie before I shave her head?” Dad stuck his head in. “I thought a short cut would be enough, but maybe she needs this to learn. Do it, honey.” I couldn’t believe it. I was about to be transformed into a bald recruit. She placed her hand on my head, forcing me to watch. “You’re going to watch your scalp being shaved until your bare skin is visible to everyone.” The clippers plowed through my hair, landing heavy clumps on the floor. I watched in horror as I became progressively more bald. When the buzzing stopped, she didn't put me down. Instead, she lathered my stubbly scalp with thick, white shaving cream. Using the straight razor with practiced precision, she began the final stage of the headshave. I felt the cold steel against my skin, scraping away the remnants of my identity. She moved the blade in slow, steady strokes, ensuring she didn't miss a single spot. “You’ll be a completely bald girl by the time I’m done,” she whispered. She worked until she had achieved a perfectly smooth shaved head. She rinsed the razor and rubbed her hand over my scalp, checking for any missed patches. Finding it perfectly bald and sleek, she wiped away the excess foam with a towel. “Go downstairs,” mom said. “Ask your father if I got your head smooth enough.” I slid off the stool, feeling the air hit my naked scalp for the first time. Downstairs, my brother’s laughter was deafening. Dad hugged me, rubbing my smooth shaved head. “I’ve never felt anything so smooth,” he remarked. “You really are bald, Annie.” Now I’m here in my room, a 15-year-old baldgirl, wondering how I'll ever show my face at school. My head is smooth, my hair is gone, and I don't even have any fringe left to chew on for my anxiety.

Female head shave stories 2026 _ Dandruff Female Headshave

The heavy humidity of the Pooja holidays hung in the air, mirroring the dread in my heart. I am Aishwarya, a first-year college student. Once, my crowning glory was my hip-length hair—thick, dark, and swaying with every step. But a stubborn case of dandruff had turned my pride into a nightmare of falling strands. My aunt, weary of failed lotions and doctors, had reached her final verdict: a total head shave. At 10:00 AM, the doorbell delivered my fate. A man with a weathered face and a small leather bag was led to the backyard. My aunt made me change into old clothes, and as I stepped outside, the sight of his tools made my stomach drop. I saw a polished straight razor gleaming in the sun. "Dandruff adigama aagitu iruku," my aunt said sternly. "You have to go completely bald today." I sobbed, begging for mercy, but she forced me onto a low wooden stool. My aunt left for the shop, leaving me at the mercy of the barber. He unbraided my hip-length hair, the weight of it feeling like a lost limb already. He poured a mug of cold water over my head, the liquid dripping down my forehead and soaking my collar. Then, the sound that will haunt me forever: the click of a fresh half-blade being inserted into the straight razor. "Don't cry," he said, though his hands were firm. He forced my head down until my chin pressed into my chest, exposing the curve of my scalp. He placed the cold steel of the straight razor running on my head, starting from the very center. With a sharp scritch, the first path was cleared. Long, wet clumps of my hair began falling like rain into my lap, covering my knees in a dark shroud. Within minutes, the back of my head was a bare bald scalp. He tilted my head to the left, the razor gliding effortlessly, then to the right. The transition was brutal—from thick tresses to naked skin in less than five minutes. I was now fully bald. But the ritual wasn't over. To achieve an extra smooth finish, he lathered my entire head in thick white shaving cream. He took the straight razor again and began shaving in a reverse motion, against the grain. The sensation was intense; I could feel the microscopic vibrations of the blade on my bone. As he worked, a sudden storm broke. I watched hail falling on the ground, the white ice pellets bouncing off the dirt just like the shorn piles of my hair. The contrast was striking: the icy hail outside and the stinging heat of the aftershave he rubbed onto my freshly shaved scalp. My aunt returned and smiled, pleased with the mirror-like shine of my bald head. She instructed him to return every week for six months to keep me completely bald. For half a year, my life was a cycle of rubbing my head on my smooth shaved bald scalp, feeling the transition from velvety skin to prickly stubble, only for the razor to return and take it all away again. Now, my hair has grown back to my shoulders, but the shadow of the razor returns. Because of a vow my aunt made, I am being taken to the temple for another ritual head shave. I know that soon, the foam will return, the straight razor will touch my skin, and I will once again feel the breeze on a naked, smooth scalp.

shaved head stories 2026 - EP1

It was a sweltering afternoon in Chennai, the kind where the air itself felt thick and heavy. I was new to the city, still navigating its bustling streets when a small barbershop caught my eye. What was unusual wasn't the shop itself, but the owner. A young woman, her head completely shaven, was meticulously working on a child. The starkness of her bald head was striking, yet it somehow enhanced her beauty, lending her a regal presence. I sat on the bench outside, drawn by an invisible pull. She was incredibly swift, her hands a blur as she shaved the child's head. Within minutes, the boy was completely bald, rubbing his scalp with a satisfied grin. Then, the woman’s gaze met mine, and she gestured me in. As I settled into the chair, I couldn't help but think of the many shaved head stories I’d heard about travelers finding themselves in local barbershops, but I never expected to be the protagonist of one. "Shave or haircut?" she asked. "A haircut would be fine," I replied, my eyes still drawn to her smooth scalp. As she gathered her tools, I ventured the question: "Why did you shave your head?" She turned to face me fully. "In Chennai, especially during the summer, people often prefer a shaved head," she explained. "And this is my livelihood. If I had hair, customers might feel hesitant to ask for a headshave, thinking I wouldn't understand. Keeping my head shaved makes people comfortable." "Your head looks so smooth," I blurted out. "When did you shave it?" She let out a soft laugh. "Every day. I keep it smooth so people are drawn to it. Like you were." My cheeks flushed, but she just chuckled. "You're not the first. I see it all the time. People come in, curious about the shaved head, and I assume that’s why you’re here too." She leaned in slightly, her gaze direct. "So, what's it going to be? A haircut, or shall I give you the full headshave experience? I do a very good headshave. You'll love it. If you don't, you don't pay." The offer was bold. "Okay," I said, a grin spreading across my face. "Let's try the headshave." She retrieved a gleaming straight razor and began to dampen my hair. Next, she applied a generous lather of shaving gel, massaging it into my scalp. She expertly tilted my head down and made the first careful stroke right in the center. A thick swath of lather and hair slid down onto the cape. In the mirror, a perfectly shaved patch was revealed. She continued with long, confident strokes. My hair fell away, revealing the contours of my head. Soon, I was completely bare. She wiped my scalp until it gleamed and applied a refreshing aftershave, followed by a soothing oil massage. "So," she asked softly, "What do you think? Was it good?" "I loved it," I replied, feeling more relaxed than I had in weeks. "Headshave is my specialty," she beamed. When I asked for the price, she said fifty rupees. I handed her a hundred and told her to keep the change. "I'm going to be here for a few weeks," I told her. "I think I'll be back every day for a headshave." A playful smile touched her lips. "In that case, I'll give you a discount next time." As I left the shop, I ran my hand over my new look. I realized that of all the shaved head stories I could have ended up with, this one—the feeling of the cool breeze on my smooth skin—was definitely my favorite.

My First headshave

The long, demanding year of my PG course had finally come to an end. With my roommates gone and the summer heat intensifying, I felt a desperate need to shed my old skin. I spent a week in a haze of relaxation, but the rising temperature made my medium-length hair and messy beard feel like a suffocating blanket. It was time. I woke up early, the sun already hinting at the heat to come. After scrolling through social media and seeing a friend's freshly shorn scalp, my mind was made up. I didn’t just want a haircut; I wanted a multi-stage ritual. I wanted to feel every sensation of the transition from hairy to a perfectly smooth, glass-like bald scalp. After a quick selfie to document the "before," I headed to my regular barber. "Just the beard," I told him. He was confused, but complied, lathering me up and using the straight razor to leave my face stinging and fresh. He trimmed just a fraction of an inch off the top of my head, leaving me still hairy but eager for the next step. I rode my bike to a second shop. I sat in the chair and asked for a tight buzz. I watched the #2 guard clipper tracks fall to the floor. As the barber ran the machine over my crown, the weight began to lift. I left that shop with a short crop, but it wasn't enough. I wanted the naked steel of a razor against my skin. I found the perfect spot: a crowded, old-school shop at a busy junction. One of the barbers was sporting a magnificently polished bald head, his scalp gleaming under the fluorescent lights. I waited impatiently until his chair opened up. "Shave it all," I said, my voice echoing. "I want it exactly like yours. Mirror smooth." The barber grinned. He bypassed the guards entirely, using the naked #0 clipper. I closed my eyes as the vibrating metal teeth bit into the hair at the nape of my neck, dragging slowly upward. The sensation of the clipper running on my bare head was electric. Strip after strip of hair fell away until my scalp was a pale, stubbly landscape. Then came the real magic. He didn't just spray water; he massaged a thick, cooling gel into my pores, working up a dense, marshmallow-like lather that covered my entire head. The shop went quiet as he unwrapped a fresh, lethal-looking straight razor. The first stroke started at the very top. I heard the scritch-scritch of the blade as it mowed down the stubble. The feeling was primal—the cold steel gliding over the curves of my skull. He worked in slow, deliberate sections, pulling the skin taut. With every pass, a path of glistening, bare scalp emerged from the white foam. Once the first pass was done, he wasn't finished. "We make it perfect now," he whispered. He reapplied a second layer of warm lather. This time, he moved the straight razor against the grain. The sensation was intense—a sharp, sliding friction that ensured not a single microscopic hair remained. As he finished, a sudden summer storm broke outside. Through the open door, I could see hail falling on the ground, the white ice pellets bouncing off the hot pavement. It looked exactly like the piles of white lather and shorn hair surrounding my chair. He wiped my head down with a steaming towel, then a freezing one. Finally, he poured a generous palmful of mentholated aftershave into his hands and rubbed my head vigorously. The burn was incredible. I reached up, my fingers finally meeting my own skin. It felt like polished marble or a cue ball—supernaturally smooth. I paid him and stepped out into the cooling air. The hail had stopped, leaving the ground wet and clean. I stood there for a moment, rubbing my smooth shaved bald head, feeling the incredible contrast of the cool breeze against my naked scalp. Back at the apartment, I couldn't stop. I spent the evening in front of the mirror, my palms sliding over the back and sides, mesmerized by the friction-less texture. As I type this now, I am still rubbing my head, feeling the tiniest hint of prickly regrowth starting to emerge—a reminder that tomorrow morning, I get to take the razor out and make it perfectly smooth all over again.

Finally I shaved my head

I woke up that morning feeling like the weight of the world was pressing down on my shoulders. My heart was heavy, consumed by the wreckage of a recent breakup. I couldn't bear the thought of my own reflection, let alone the familiar routine of my life. I needed a total erasure. I picked up the phone and called the local barbershop, specifically asking for a traditional straight razor service. As I walked into the shop, the scent of bay rum and talcum powder filled the air. I felt a wave of self-consciousness, but my determination to start anew was stronger. Riya, the barber, looked at me with a mixture of surprise and curiosity as I sat in the heavy leather chair. "What can I do for you today?" she asked. "I want it all gone," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "A full straight razor shave. I want to feel the steel on my scalp." Riya raised an eyebrow, recognizing the gravity in my request. She didn't say a word, simply began the ritual. First came the clippers, humming against my skull. As the long strands of hair fell away, I felt a physical lightness. But the real transformation began when she reclined the chair. She applied a steaming hot towel to my head, softening the stubble and opening the pores. When she pulled the towel away, she began whipping up a thick, warm lather in a ceramic bowl. Using a badger-hair brush, she painted my scalp in rich, white foam until every inch of my head was covered. Then, I heard the sound: the rhythmic strop-strop-strop of a straight razor being sharpened on a leather belt. Riya stood behind me, her touch firm but incredibly gentle. She placed one hand on my forehead to steady me and brought the blade to the nape of my neck. I held my breath as I felt the first pass. The cold steel sliced through the lather and the remaining stubble with a crisp, audible scritch. She worked in methodical, deliberate strokes. I closed my eyes, focusing entirely on the sensation of the razor running over the contours of my head. It moved from the base of my skull up toward the crown, then down over the temples. Each stroke of the blade felt like it was scraping away a layer of my old grief. "Stay still," she whispered, her fingers stretching the skin of my scalp taut to ensure the closest possible shave. The sensation was hypnotic. The warmth of the lather, the coolness of the steel, and the steady, scraping sound of the razor clearing the path to a new identity. She finished the first pass and then re-lathered, performing a second pass against the grain. This time, the razor glided effortlessly over the skin. By the time she was done, there wasn't a hint of friction left—just the raw, sensitive reality of my own scalp. She cleaned the remaining foam with a cold towel, the shock of it making me gasp. Finally, she massaged a cooling aftershave balm into my skin. Her palms moved in circular motions, buffing the skin until it was perfectly smooth. When Riya finally brought the chair forward and handed me a mirror, I gasped. My head was a smooth, polished dome, reflecting the shop’s overhead lights. I ran my own hand over it, marveled at the velvet-like texture of my bare scalp. I looked brighter, more alert, and entirely different. "Why the total change?" Riya asked softly as I stood up. "I needed to lose the weight," I said, looking her in the eye. "I wanted to feel everything again." Riya’s face softened. She reached out, her fingers grazing the very top of my head. "It suits you," she said. "The bone structure, the clarity... you look beautiful." The contact of her warm hand against my freshly shaved, sensitive skin sent a jolt of electricity through my body. The intimacy of the shave had broken down a wall I didn't know I had. Without thinking, I leaned in and kissed her. Riya’s eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she moved her hand from the top of my head to the back of my smooth neck, pulling me closer. The kiss was soft, a contrast to the sharp steel that had just been at my throat. It felt like a promise. We exchanged numbers, and over the next few weeks, the ritual of the shave became a cornerstone of our growing connection. I returned to her chair every few days. I grew to love the routine: the warm lather, the silence of the shop, and the feeling of Riya’s focused energy as she ran the straight razor over my scalp. One night, at my apartment, the clippers and razor came out again. This time, it wasn't about a breakup; it was about us. Riya guided the blade with expert precision while I sat between her knees. "I love how this feels," she whispered, running her palm over the finished, silk-smooth result. She leaned down, kissing the crown of my head, then my forehead, then my lips. "I think I'm falling in love with you," she said against my skin. "I know I'm falling in love with you," I replied. My smooth head had started as a way to hide from the world, but with Riya, it became a symbol of being completely seen. No hair to hide behind, no old versions of myself left—just the smooth, clean surface of a life we were building together, one stroke of the razor at a time.

Headshave and bet. Guess who win - Headshave 2025

This is the story of how a harmless game of Truth or Dare cost me every strand of hair on my head. Seema and I were bored senseless yesterday. We decided to play Truth or Dare, mainly just to pass the time. We sat on the living room floor, and she spun the empty bottle. It pointed straight at me. “Truth or Dare?” Seema asked. “Truth,” I replied, trying to be safe. She thought for a moment. “Tell me one thing you genuinely dislike about me.” I hesitated. I’d never told her this before because it seemed harsh, but the rules of the game demanded honesty. “I don’t like your long hair,” I admitted. Seema looked genuinely surprised, almost hurt. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" she asked. I explained I thought it would upset her. She just shook her head, an unreadable look crossing her face. It was her turn. She spun the bottle, and this time it stopped pointing directly at her. "Truth or Dare?" I asked, a mischievous smile playing on my lips. "Dare," she said, sounding defiant. This was my chance. “I dare you to let me cut your hair.” She was shocked. "You're kidding, right?" "Absolutely serious," I smiled. Reluctantly, she agreed. I fetched scissors from the bathroom. I didn't go for a drastic change, but I chopped about two inches unevenly. She was glaring at the clumps of hair on the floor, clearly miserable. I knew I had pushed it too far. We went back to the game. She was still staring at her chopped locks. "My turn to spin," I announced, grabbing the bottle before she could react. I spun it hard, hoping it would land on her. It didn't. The bottle settled, pointing squarely at me. I knew the look on her face. Vengeance. I swallowed hard. She didn't even bother to ask the question. She just stared, waiting. I had no choice. “Dare,” I confirmed, trying to sound confident. Her eyes went wide with pure, malicious excitement. She didn't say a word. She simply stood up and walked straight into the bathroom. A moment later, she returned carrying a menacing, silver object: a straight razor. I stared at it, confused. “Seema, that’s not for hairstyling.” She laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “I dare you to let me change your hairstyle.” I was trapped. I had accepted the dare. I agreed. She guided me to the floor, positioning me in front of the sofa where she sat. Without ceremony, she grabbed a water bottle and drenched my hair thoroughly. I protested, asking what she was planning, but she just told me to shut up and stick to the dare. She started by massaging my head briefly, then suddenly stopped. She bent my head forward, placed her thumb precisely in the center of my scalp, and then, slowly, placed the cold, sharp straight razor against my head, right next to her thumb. The air went out of my lungs. She began shaving. The sensation was intense. I could feel the blade shaving my scalp and making it bald with the first, long, deliberate stroke. A wet, thick track of my hair was instantly gone, falling in clumps to the ground where they mixed with the remnants of her own chopped hair. I was mesmerized, horrified, and oddly paralyzed. I felt every single movement. She worked methodically, focusing entirely on the process. The razor glided over my head, clearing path after path. The area she had already cleared—my nascent shaved scalp—felt alien, sensitive, and shockingly cold compared to the rest of my wet, weighted hair. This wasn't just a haircut; this was a total execution. I was going completely bald. She finished the crown and the back, then carefully worked the razor down the sides, scraping away years of growth. My hair gathered around my neck and stuck to my t-shirt. When the initial bulk was gone, my head felt prickly and exposed. She pulled my chin up, forcing me to look into her eyes. "Now you know how I felt," she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. But she wasn't finished. She went back to work with renewed dedication, determined to eliminate even the slightest trace of stubble. She put the straight razor back to my head and began the second pass. Then the third. She worked with the quiet precision of an artist perfecting a sculpture, going over the entire surface until the skin was smooth enough to squeak. Every few seconds, she’d rub the area with her fingertips to check the texture. When she was finally satisfied that my entire head was perfectly, utterly smooth shaved head, she gave my newly bald scalp a sharp, resounding slap. “We both lost our hair now,” she chuckled, a touch of genuine warmth returning to her voice. She poured the remaining cold water over my slick, bare head, sending shivers down my spine. I immediately went for a long, hot shower. When I returned, changed, and feeling the bizarre vulnerability of my bare skin, Seema was already making tea. I sat on the sofa, one hand instinctively rubbing the slick, smooth surface of my head. Seema brought the tea over, but she didn’t look at her cup. Her gaze was locked on my head. I didn't comment, just sipped my tea. After we finished, she took the cups, but instead of going back to the kitchen, she came and sat right next to me. Before I could ask what she was doing, she started gently rubbing oil into my shaved scalp. "It's cold out there," she murmured, still focused on smoothing the oil over my skin. "We don’t want you catching a cold." She massaged my head for several minutes, her touch incredibly soothing. When she finished, she settled back onto the sofa, placed her head on my shoulder, and checked her phone. But she didn't stop touching me. Her free hand constantly rested on my head, absentmindedly tracing the perfect contours of my smooth shaved head. I had lost the game and lost my hair, paying a steep price for a silly dare. I should have been furious, but as her warm fingers continued to explore the strange, new geography of my bald scalp, the feeling was extravagantly pleasant. It was the most intimate touch we’d shared all year. I lost my hair, but in losing it, I found a completely unexpected level of comfort.

Headshave Betrayal - Headshave 2025

This incident happened to me after a few months I moved to Banglore with my wife Priya. Ours was a love marriage. We both were very happy and enjoying our time together. Today Priya is happy but I have a smooth shaved head. This is all because of our stupid maid Seema. I didn't know her intention before or else, things would be different. Seema was baldfetish. She liked to shave people's heads to bald. Now day by day her craving for shaving someone's head was increasing. Unluckily I became her first target. It was her 2nd week in our apartment. Seema was good with household work but her temptation for baldness was crazy. One day she saw me combing my hair and she was standing there and kept staring at me. I saw her staring at me and asked, "What happened Seema?". She shook her head and said," Nothing sir" and got back to work. This is something that happened multiple times but I ignored it every time. One Day I was at work when Seema initiated her plan to shave my head. She went to Priya and while talking to her she told her that I was having an affair. Priya was shocked but she trusted me so she scolded Seema and told her not to do this kind of stupid talk. Seema apologized to Priya and went back to her normal routine. One day I came from the office, took off my clothes, and went to take a shower. Seema knew that Priya checked my pockets before giving them for washing. Seema found the opportunity and put some of her hair on my shirt as if I was with some girl. Priya came and she started checking my clothes and found the hair. Priya stopped the search and started inspecting the hair on my shirt. Soon Seema arrived and saw hair in Priya's hand and said, " Madam what happened?". Priya did not tell her and asked her to wash my clothes. But Seema's hair trick worked. That day Priya was acting very vaguely. I asked her multiple times but she always changed the topic. The next day when I was at work, Priya asked Seema, "Why did you tell me that my husband had an affair?". Seema looked at Priya and said, " I saw another woman's hair in his clothes, So I thought he might be seeing another woman". Priya went quiet and started thinking. This was another opportunity for Seema. She went to Priya and asked, "Please don't be mad at me but, how much do you love your husband?". Priya was puzzled and replied to Seema, "What kind of brainless question is that? I love him more than anything". Seema saw Priya's eyes, they were getting filled with tears. Seema came closer to Priya and said, "You saw the hair, didn't you?". Priya did not say anything. Seema knew she almost got Priya, then she said, "You know, my husband cheated on me, but today we both are living happily. Do you want to know how?". Priya did not say anything but her eyes were clearly stating that she wanted to know. Seema then told her fake story. She said, "When I found out my husband was cheating on me, I cried for the whole week but had to do something, so I observed him for a few days. He was spending most of his time on his hair which he did not do before. Somehow I had a feeling that his hair played a very important role in this, so I shaved his head smooth and till today I make him shave his head and keep it smooth". Priya asked, " How does it help?". Seema said, " Since I got his head shaved he is ashamed of going out and, usually women don't like men with a smooth shaved head. So he stayed at home more and we got the opportunity to spend more time together and now we are happier than before". Priya again started thinking. Seema interrupted her by saying that she saw me doing the same as her husband did. Priya was sad and confused. Her thoughts were driven by Seema. Priya in the end agreed with Seema and said, " So what should I do now?". Seema replied, "As I said, shave his head smooth. It will be over, trust me". Priya didn't want to lose me so she agreed with Seema but Priya was still not sure how to convince me to shave my head. Priya asked Seema, "How did you convince your husband to shave his head?". Seema said, " It was hard so I put the condition that either you get your head shaved smooth or else I am leaving". He got scared and went to a barbershop right away and came after 40 mins with a clean and smooth shaved head". Priya said, " He will get angry if I put a condition. We have to find some other way". Priya and Seema started thinking. After a few minutes Seema said, " Why don't you ask him to try a head shave. He will look good in the bald head?". Priya replied, " No, he won't agree". Seema then said there is only one way. Priya's complete focus was on Seema's next words. She said you shave his head without telling him. Priya said, " He will get mad at me if I do that". Seema replied, " Once he is bald, he will know that no woman will be interested in him, so he will only focus on you". Priya started thinking and, after a few seconds she said, " How I gonna shave his head. I don't know how to do it and I don't even have a clipper". Seema said, " No clipper. You have to shave his head smooth. Use a straight razor. Just place it on his head and drag it in the opposite direction. It will shave complete hair from his scalp". Priya again said, "But I don't have a straight razor". Seema was almost close to her plan. She said, " Don't worry I have one. I use it to shave my husband's head. You can use that. I will get it before your husband comes home". Priya agreed. I was home from the office and started the same course. Meanwhile, Seema already brought the straight razor and handed it to Priya. Priya and Seema were staring at each other. We had our dinner. I was sitting on the sofa watching TV. I noticed Seema was still there. Usually, by dinner time she already left but I did not give it more thought and continued watching TV. It was the time. Priya came and stood behind me and started massaging my head. It was common, she normally does that. It is one of her ways to express love. Priya said, " You look tired, is everything ok at work?". I replied, " Work is good". Then she took the comb and started combing my hair. It was odd because she did not use the comb before but It was feeling good so I let her do it. She was partitioning my hair for the head shave. I closed my eyes and was enjoying it. Meanwhile, Seema was looking at us from the kitchen. Priya then removed the straight razor from her pajama pocket, placed it on the front hairline, and started shaving my head. I could not even feel it for a few seconds but suddenly, I opened my eyes and leaned forward, I saw a big bunch of hair fall off my head to the ground. I was stunned looking at that and then I touched my head and felt the shaved portion. I was rubbing the shaved part and looked at Priya. She was standing with a straight razor in her hand and a comb in another hand. I asked her, rubbing the shaved portion, " Are you crazy? What have you done". She said, " You have to shave your head. This is the only way to keep other women away from you". I don't know what she was saying. I told her, " What are you talking about? Which woman?". Priya said, " Don't lie to me. I have seen her hair on your shirt". I replied, " What hair? I have no idea what you are talking about". She said, " Yesterday I saw a woman's hair on your shirt, how will you explain that?". I replied, "I use public transport. I may have come into contact with another female passenger and got her hair on my shirt and how many times did you see it?". She was quiet because it was only once and my reasoning was correct. Priya then apologized and said she got too impulsive, so she did this. I told her that damage had already been caused, so please come and finish the headshave. Saying that, I sat on the Sofa again and asked her to run the razor on my head and shave the rest of my head. She walked closer to me, placed the straight razor on my head, and started shaving it towards my back. Hair was getting shaved and falling on the sofa and my lap. She was shaving it and touching it with her fingers. Her figure felt so soft when she touched my shaved scalp. She continued shaving. After a few glides, she shaved the top of my head and started rubbing my shaved to dust off the shaved hair. Then she pushed my head down and started shaving from the back. She was running the razor and my hair was getting shaved more and more. After a few minutes, she shaved the back of my head and then from both sides as well. Now she was rubbing her hand on my shaved head. I was angry but that feeling made me forget everything. Priya knew I was enjoying it so she did not stop rubbing my shaved head. Then Seema came, and said slowly in Priya's ear, " Apply a little water and shave it smoother". Priya looked at Seema and said, "No. He is bald already". They attracted my attention and I turned my head and asked, " What are you both talking about?". Priya said," Nothing, Seema was saying, we can apply some water and shave it smoother". I gave it a thought and said, " Why not, you already shaved my head, litter smoother will not make much difference". Priya said, " I never shaved a scalp, Seema can you do it please?". Seema could not hold her feelings, and replied, "Sure madam. I can shave sir's head smoother". Then Seema went into the kitchen to bring some water. Meanwhile, Priya came and sat on my lap, kissed me, and said, "I am sorry baby. I don't want to lose you so I thought it would be better to shave your head because your hair doesn't matter to me. Only you who matters". Saying that she kissed me again. In the meantime, Seema brought a bowl of water. Priya was still sitting on my lap cleaning hair off my face and shoulder. Seema then stood where Priya was standing while shaving my head. Seema poured a little water on my scalp. It was warm. Before I could say something Seema said, "Sir, I brought warm water. It is good for a head shave". I did not react and sat still. Seema applied water on my shaved head and started shaving. She started from the center of my head. She placed a straight razor and started shaving from the top to the bottom of my back. She was shaving it slowly and carefully. Her hands were not as soft as Priya's, maybe because of her household routine. I could feel a little severing in her hand. It seems like this is the first time she is shaving somebody's head. She was running the razor and all the tiny hair was getting shaved and getting stuck to the razor which she was wiping with her fingers and washing in the bowl of water she brought for headshave. Water was running from my head. My back was completely wet and my t-shirt was covered in tiny hair. She kept running the razor at the back of my head. The noise of the headshave was sharp and clear. Priya was still sitting on my lap and wiping water off my face with her hands. When Seema completed from the back, she again placed the razor on top of my head and started shaving it toward the front. Seema. She ran the razor in the same direction till it reached the end, that was a good technique for a smooth head shave. This time Priya was watching the razor, shaving it till the end and wiping the hair off my head before it reached my face. Seema again started from the beginning and shaved the rest of the portion. In a few minutes, I was completely shaved again and left with a smooth and shiny shaved head. Then I went to clean myself and when I came back Seema and Priya were standing there and Priya said, " Now it's time for Oil". I smiled and walked toward the sofa, but Seema stopped me and quickly cleared all my hair from the sofa. Then she asked me to sit. Then Priya applied some oil on my head and started massaging. Priya massaged my head for a few minutes and stopped. Then Seema came and said, " Madam, if you are tired can I massage Sir's head? It seems he is enjoying a head massage". Priya nodded her head in agreement. Then Seema came behind me and took some oil on her hands and slowly started applying it to my head. She was rubbing it in a circular motion. When the oil faded it got a little rough but I enjoyed it. Since then whenever Priya sees me tired or stressed, she offers me a headshave and I refuse her offer. But inside me, I always wanted to get my head shaved. I don't know how long I will be able to hold myself. It's been a month, let's see if I can make it till the second month without a headshave.

Foreced headshave by Family - Headshave 2025

"Mommy! I can't do that!" I screamed, the words tearing from my throat. "Chandra, there's no other way," she whispered, refusing to meet my eyes. "You know what your father will do if you refuse..." I knew. I knew all too well. I once protested taking the bus to school, wanting to ride my bicycle instead. The "treatment" my father gave me for that simple act of defiance still made my skin crawl. "But Mommy, I'm in college now! I'm not a toy for him to control," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "I can't argue with him, Chandra," she said, her voice flat. "He'll be home tonight. You'll have to speak to him yourself." She turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the cold dread coiling in my stomach. It had all started two weeks ago. My father, a stubborn and short-tempered man, was losing money in his business. He brought home an astrologer who declared I was under a curse. The only remedy, he claimed, was a "unique offering" to appease the gods. To my horror, my father’s idea of unique was for the entire family to have their heads shaved at our ancestral temple. My head. Shaved. The thought was a physical blow. What would my friends say when they saw me completely bald? My beautiful, thick, butt-length hair, gone. That night, I stood before my father, trembling. He gave me a single, dismissive glance. "We're going to our native place tomorrow," he stated, not asked. "Get ready. We will all be getting tonsured." Tears streamed down my face instantly. "Pa, please... I'll roll around the temple a hundred times, but please, not my hair! Why do I have to shave my head?" His face hardened. "How dare you?" he roared, and the slap came so fast I barely registered the sting before my cheek was burning. "You think your education gives you the right to oppose me? In my house, you obey! Now go pack. We leave in thirty minutes." Sobbing, I stumbled to my room. The next day was a blur of misery. We arrived at the temple, a place bustling with relatives for a festival. The whispers followed me everywhere. I could see the pity in my cousins' eyes. My pride, my glorious mane of rich, chocolate-brown hair that my friends openly envied, was about to be sacrificed. My father led us to a designated area behind the temple. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and antiseptic. I saw several barbers working quickly, their razors flashing in the sun. My father went first, sitting on the stool without a word. In less than five minutes, his head was bare and gleaming. Then it was Mom's turn. I watched, mesmerized by the horror. The barber doused her hair with water, worked in a rough shampoo, and sent her to the nearby pond to rinse. When she returned, dripping, he combed her soaked hair, parting it down the middle and tying each side into a thick, wet rope. He picked up a large manual clipper. The metallic snick-snick sound was sickeningly loud as he sheared the hair right at the scalp. The two great locks of her hair fell away, and he tossed them aside like trash. Then came the shaving cream. He worked it into a thick, white lather across her remaining stubble. He pulled out a straight razor, its steel edge catching the light. He wiped the blade on his palm, tilted my mother's head forward, and began to shave. The first stroke was right down the crown of her head, the razor gliding effortlessly, peeling away the white foam to reveal a patch of pale, utterly smooth skin. He moved with practiced speed, turning her head, stretching the skin, the blade making a soft, hissing sound. Soon, her entire head was a perfectly bald, gleaming orb. She was a stranger. And then, it was my turn. Reluctantly, I took the seat. My heart hammered against my ribs. Another barber, this one a woman, gestured for me to sit on a low wooden stool inside a canvas enclosure. Her eyes were professional, devoid of pity. She took a comb and ran it through my dry hair one last time, the familiar weight of it on my back a painful farewell. Then she sectioned it, binding each half tightly with rubber bands. She picked up a pair of shears. The cold metal pressed against my neck, just above the bands. SNIP. A huge weight vanished from my right side. I watched in shock as she held up the thick, twenty-inch ponytail before dropping it on a cloth. SNIP. The other side was gone. In seconds, I was left with a ragged, boyish cut. She ran her hands over my head, her fingers mapping the terrain she was about to conquer. She took the clippers and went to work on the remaining length, bringing it all down to a uniform, prickly stubble. I shivered as cool air hit my scalp for the first time. The sound was a loud, invasive buzz right next to my ears. Then came the lather. She worked the shaving cream in with a stiff brush, the bristles scratching against my head. The smell was clean and soapy. Soon, my entire scalp was a helmet of white foam. I couldn't even feel the stubble anymore. She produced her straight razor. "Hold still," she said softly. I squeezed my eyes shut. I felt the cold, flat side of the blade press against my forehead to position it. Then, with an unnerving, whisper-soft sound, it began to glide. The first pass was from my hairline back over the crown. I could feel the gentle, scraping pressure as the blade shaved the scalp clean, leaving a trail of impossibly smooth skin in its wake. There was no pain, just the bizarre sensation of being systematically un-haired. She tilted my head forward, her hand firm on my crown, and began long, methodical strokes down the back of my neck. Each pass of the razor took more of me away, the feeling of the sharp edge against my vulnerable skin sending shivers down my spine. She worked around my ears, carefully pulling them down to get every last bit. When she finished, she ran her palm over the entire surface. Dissatisfied with some imperceptible roughness, she re-lathered a few spots and went over them again. Finally, she wiped my head with a wet cloth. "It is done," she said. I slowly raised a hand to my head. My fingers met not hair, not even stubble, but skin. It was shockingly, unbelievably smooth. Warmer than I expected. I followed the curve of my own skull, a shape I had never known. I felt utterly exposed, like a raw nerve. Catching my reflection in a small, warped mirror nearby, a gasp escaped my lips. I didn't recognize the person staring back. The face was mine, but the bald head was alien, stark and vulnerable. My features seemed harsher, my eyes bigger and filled with a despair I'd never known. This was it. This was the humiliation. I wept, deep, gut-wrenching sobs that shook my whole body. After bathing, my mother handed me a simple yellow blouse and petticoat. Dressed in the humble clothes, I went out and performed the ritual, rolling my body fifteen times over the dusty temple corridor. With every turn, the rough stone scraped against my bare, sensitive scalp. I closed my eyes and prayed, not to the god my father was trying to appease, but to any force that might be listening. "Please," I begged silently, "let this be the first and last time. Let me never feel this shame again." It was a prayer for my hair to return, but more than that, it was a prayer for myself.

Headshave Vow - Headshave 2025

My name is Pavithra, but everyone calls me Pavi. I like it short and sweet, a nickname I chose for myself. What I would never choose to shorten, however, was my hair. It was my glory, my identity. A thick, wavy waterfall of black silk that tumbled all the way down to my legs. I was proud of it, this living mantle I’d cultivated for years. My husband loved it too, or so I thought. He’d always vetoed my desire to get it straightened, warning me about hair fall, preserving its natural state. I’d always listened. It all changed with a phone call. My husband had been away in Shimla for training for months, and I was alone in our Mumbai flat. One night, he called, his voice buzzing with excitement. “Pavi, I got the promotion!” I was thrilled for him, until he said the words that made my blood run cold. “And now you have to fulfil my vow. I promised that if I got this, you would offer your hair at Tirumala Tirupati.” I laughed, thinking it was a joke. “What are you talking about? Shave my head? You can’t be serious.” His voice was firm. “I’m completely serious, Pavi. It’s a vow. When I come home, I expect to see you with a bald head. And I want pictures. A 'before' picture with all your hair, and an 'after' one, completely shaved. I’m eager to see your tonsure.” The line went quiet except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. He had taken the thing I loved most about myself and turned it into a bargaining chip without my consent. After a long, tearful argument, I knew I had lost. I was trapped. That weekend, my heart a heavy stone in my chest, I booked a bus ticket to Tirumala. On the bus, I sat by the window, my heavy hair braided down my back, feeling like a condemned woman. A kind-faced woman with a beautiful, long braid of her own sat next to me. “Your hair is beautiful,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Girija.” “Pavi,” I managed to say. “Thank you. Yours is too.” We fell into easy conversation, and the inevitable question came up. “So, you’re going for a darshan at Tirumala?” she asked. I took a deep breath. “For a tonsure, actually. I have to… shave my head.” Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she broke into an even bigger smile. “No way! Me too!” I was stunned. “You’re getting your head shaved? But you seem so happy about it.” “I am!” she laughed. “My hair has been falling out from stress, and I wanted to cut it short anyway. My mother-in-law would never allow a haircut, but she insisted on a tonsure for a prayer she made. It’s the perfect solution! I’m actually looking forward to it.” Just then, a young woman boarded, looking for a seat. She had the most incredible hair I had ever seen, a straight, silky sheet that fell past her waist to her knees. She looked miserable. We made room for her by the window. As she settled in, she listlessly tied her hair up. “I’m Shivya,” she mumbled, noticing us looking. “My hair is a pain.” Girija, ever the optimist, said, “We were just talking about our hair! We’re Pavi and Girija. And we’re both on our way to shave our heads.” Shivya’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You too? I thought I was the only one. My mom made a vow years ago. Now she’s forcing me. She even threatened to cut my hair in my sleep if I refused.” And just like that, we were a strange little club. Three women on a bus, all with cascades of long hair, all heading to the same fate for entirely different reasons. Girija, the willing one; Shivya, the resigned one; and me, the heartbroken one. Girija took on the role of our cheerleader. “Don’t worry,” she told us, “I’ll be with you both. It’ll be an adventure!” When we finally reached the tonsure hall, the reality of it hit me like a physical blow. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and hair. We stood in line, my stomach churning. I had braided my hair into two thick pigtails, a last, childish attempt to hold onto it. Girija went first. She sat in the chair with a serene smile, giving the barber her token. He drenched her head with water, her long, dark braid turning into a slick rope. He took his straight razor, and with a confident motion, scraped a clean, wide path right down the middle of her scalp. The sight was shocking—the dark hair falling away to reveal pale, virgin skin beneath. In minutes, the barber’s razor was gliding efficiently over her head, and Girija, my brave friend, was beautifully and completely bald. She ran a hand over her newly smooth scalp, a look of genuine delight on her face. Then, it was my turn. My legs felt like lead as I walked to the chair. Girija, now holding my camera, gave me a thumbs-up. “Ask him to cut the pigtails first,” she whispered. I nodded numbly and sat down. The barber took a pair of scissors. There was a loud SNIP, and my right pigtail was gone. I felt a sudden, dizzying lightness on one side of my head. SNIP. The second one fell into my lap. I stared at the two thick, lifeless ropes of hair that had been a part of me for my entire adult life. Then the water came, cold and shocking on my now-short hair. The barber lathered my head, and I closed my eyes, tears finally spilling over. I felt the first touch of the blade. It was cold steel against my scalp, followed by a strange, tingling scrape. I could hear it, a faint, rhythmic sound as the razor did its work, shearing away the last of my stubble. With each pass, more of my scalp was exposed to the cool air of the hall. It felt incredibly vulnerable, incredibly final. Girija was taking photos, documenting this bizarre, violating ritual for my husband. After what felt like an eternity, the barber wiped my head with a towel. It was over. I slowly raised a trembling hand to my head. It felt alien. There was no hair, no texture, just the smooth, warm curve of my own skull. I was bald. Pavi, the girl whose identity was her leg-length hair, was gone. Finally, it was Shivya’s turn. She sat silently, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek as the barber gathered her immense curtain of hair. Within minutes, she joined our club. We stood together outside, a trio of bald women. The breeze felt incredible, a sensation I’d never known, dancing directly on my scalp. We took photos of each other, not with sadness, but with a strange sense of shared victory. We came from different places, with different stories, but we were bound by this single, transformative act. I sent the ‘after’ photo to my husband, my finger hovering over the send button. His vow was fulfilled. But as I stood there, feeling the sun on my new, smooth-shaved head, I realized something else had happened. I had lost my hair, but I had found two sisters, and maybe, just maybe, a different kind of strength I never knew I had.

Headshave by baldgirl in Chennai - Headshave 2025

It was a sweltering afternoon in Chennai, the kind where the air itself felt thick and heavy. I was new to the city, still navigating its bustling streets and unfamiliar rhythm. Drawn by a sense of curiosity, I found myself wandering, when a small barbershop caught my eye. What was unusual wasn't the shop itself, but the owner. A young woman, her head completely shaven, was meticulously working on a child. The starkness of her bald head was striking, yet it somehow enhanced her beauty, lending her a striking, almost regal, presence. I couldn't help myself. Drawn by an invisible pull, I sat down on the bench outside her shop. She was incredibly swift, her hands a blur as she shaved the child's head. Within minutes, the boy was completely bald, rubbing his scalp with a satisfied grin before scampering off. Then, the woman’s gaze met mine, and she gestured me in. Inside, I settled into the barber's chair. "Shave or haircut?" she asked, her voice clear and steady. "A haircut would be fine," I replied, my eyes still drawn to her smooth, shaven head. As she rummaged through her tools, I ventured the question that had been buzzing in my mind. "Can I ask you something?" "Of course," she said, not missing a beat in her search. "Why did you shave your head?" She turned to face me fully, a knowing look in her eyes. "You're not from around here, are you?" "No, I'm not," I admitted. "In Chennai, especially during the summer, people often prefer a shaved head," she explained. "And this is my livelihood. If I had hair, customers might feel hesitant to ask for a headshave, thinking I wouldn't understand. So, keeping my head shaved helps my business run smoothly. It makes people comfortable." Her explanation was pragmatic, but my fascination remained. "Your head looks so smooth," I blurted out, "When did you shave it?" She let out a soft laugh, a surprisingly melodious sound. "Every day," she replied. I blinked, genuinely surprised. "Seriously? Every day?" "Why would I lie?" she countered, a playful glint in her eyes. "I keep it smooth so people are drawn to it. Like you were." My cheeks flushed. I hadn't realized I'd been staring so openly. I tried to compose myself, but she just chuckled again. "You're not the first," she added. "I see it all the time. People come in, curious about the shaved head, and I assume that’s why you’re here too." She then turned back to me, her gaze direct and challenging. "So, what's it going to be? A haircut, or shall I give you the full headshave experience?" She leaned in slightly. "I do a very good headshave. You'll love it. If you don't, you don't pay. So, what do you say?" The offer was bold, and the implicit trust she placed in me was disarming. A part of me was still hesitant, but a larger part was undeniably intrigued, especially by her confidence and skill. "Okay," I said, a grin spreading across my face. "Let's try the headshave." She set aside the haircutting tools and retrieved a gleaming straight razor. With practiced ease, she replaced the blade and then began to dampen my hair with a spray bottle. The cool water was a welcome sensation. Next, she applied a generous lather of shaving gel, massaging it into my scalp until it was rich and creamy. She then expertly tilted my head down and made the first careful stroke of the razor right in the center of my scalp. A thick swath of lather, heavy with my fallen hair, slid down my forehead and onto the cape. In the mirror, a perfectly shaved patch was revealed, stark against the mass of hair still clinging to my head. She continued, her strokes long and confident, moving rhythmically across my scalp. My hair, which had been my pride just twenty minutes ago, was falling away, revealing the contours of my head. Soon, the top, back, and sides were all smooth and bare. She then took a soft towel, wiping my newly shaven head until it gleamed. The application of aftershave brought a brief sting, followed by a refreshing coolness. But she wasn't finished. She produced a small bottle of oil and began to massage my scalp. Her hands, so adept with the razor, were incredibly gentle and soothing as they glided over my newly smooth head. I’d never experienced anything like it. "So," she asked, her voice soft, "What do you think? Was it good?" I smiled, a genuine, relaxed smile. "I loved it." She beamed. "Headshave is my specialty." As she removed the cape, I asked, "How much for the headshave?" "Fifty rupees," she replied. I handed her a hundred, and as she reached for the change, I stopped her. "Keep it," I said. She tried to refuse, but I persisted, "Look, I'm going to be here for a few weeks. I really like your look, and I think I'll be back every day for a headshave." A playful smile touched her lips. "In that case," she said, finally accepting the full amount, "I'll give you a discount next time." We both laughed, the sound echoing warmly in the small shop. As I left, I couldn't resist running my hand over my smooth, shaven head, the cool breeze a delightful sensation.