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.

Finally. I am bald now - Headshave 2025

“You can do it!,” I whispered to myself, trying to steady my breathing. “You have come this far, don’t chicken out now!” It was Sunday morning, and I was frozen stiff outside a bustling barbershop. I’d driven past this place for an hour, hoping it would empty out, but the seats were full. I finally parked across the street and stood there, staring at the door, for thirty minutes. Now I was right outside, paralyzed. Just as I was about to tuck tail and run, a young man opened the door for me. There was no turning back. I smiled and thanked him, forcing myself inside. This was my first time in a barbershop. Everything smelled of shaving cream and disinfectant. The air buzzed with the low hum of clippers working their magic on the men seated in the chairs. This was definitely not one of those fancy women’s salons. There was only one female barber working, a tall, attractive woman with short, practical hair. She was the one who would do it. I sat down, waiting my turn, trying to keep my hands from shaking. Today was the day. At 34, I was finally going to take the plunge and have my head shaved completely bald. My beautiful, long hair was just too much hassle, too much maintenance. It was time to shed the crown and reveal the true me. I didn't know how long I’d stay bald, but I had to try it just once. “Please come,” the lady barber smiled, motioning me over. The chair was massive, nothing like the delicate chairs in a salon. It felt solid and comforting. “What can I do for you?” she asked, a professional smile set on her face. I swallowed hard. I started to explain, then realized everyone in the shop had gone quiet and was staring. “It’s now or never,” I thought. “I want you to shave my head,” I stated clearly. “I want it completely bald.” A look of surprise flashed across her face, and she gently asked if I was sure. I smiled and explained that this was something I had wanted for years but only just found the courage to attempt. After a brief conversation, she agreed. She turned the chair toward the window, slipped the protective cape around my shoulders, and fastened it tight at my neck. I took a deep breath. The previously noisy barbershop was eerily silent now. Pop! The sharp sound startled me, followed by the steady, loud humming of the powerful clippers. The sound got closer just as I felt her hand push my head down slightly. The clippers pressed against the nape of my neck and started their ascent. The vibration was intense. It felt like they ripped through my long hair at lightning speed. Within seconds, a cool breeze washed over the back half of my skull. The weight I hadn’t even realized I was carrying was gone. The clippers moved up and over the crown, creating a startling sound as they chewed through the thickest part of my hair. Strands began tumbling onto my lap under the cape, signaling the point of absolutely no return. Just minutes later, the first stage was done. I could feel the prickly stubble across my entire head, but I knew the real event was just beginning. She tilted my head back. Then came the warmth. A thick, luxurious coating of shaving foam was spread over my scalp, massaging it deep into the short remaining hairs. I couldn't see anything, facing the window as I was, but I savored the anticipation. This was the moment I would achieve the smooth, bald look. I felt the cool steel of the straight razor settle against my forehead. With deliberate precision, she began the shave. Glide. Scrape. There was a strange, thrilling chill that rushed through my body every time that blade ran across my head, meeting absolutely no resistance. She was running the straight razor slowly and carefully, removing the last remnants of stubble and making the skin perfectly bare. She worked on the top of my head first, clearing the foam and the hair totally away. Then she pushed my head forward slightly, angling the razor so she could meticulously shave the back and the delicate areas around my ears. It was an incredibly intimate process—the feeling of the blade making my scalp absolutely, flawlessly smooth. Soon, the grating sound stopped. She wiped my head clean with a warm, white towel. My scalp felt exposed, tight, and wonderfully fresh. Finally, she spread a warm, fragrant oil over my freshly shaved scalp, massaging it gently. It felt intensely soothing. I pulled my hands out from under the cape and reached up. I touched my scalp for the first time. Where my fingers used to meet a thick halo of hair, there was nothing but skin. No stubble, no fuzz—just a perfect, velvet smoothness. It felt incredible, like touching the cleanest surface imaginable. I was bald. I was smooth. I was free.

Surprise Surprise!!! Headshave story

The sting of a recent breakup had left Ron raw, the emotional tempest leaving him adrift and unable to navigate the choppy waters of his professional life. Eight months had passed, an agonizing crawl toward recovery, before he'd even considered dipping a toe back into the complexities of dating. He found himself on a peculiar online platform, a haven for those harboring “insane fantasies.” With a shrug and a healthy dose of desperation, Ron created a profile, the blank avatar of “Riya” appearing as a response within minutes. “Hi, Are you up for some fun?” Her message, devoid of any visual context, was a gamble, but Ron, adrift and seeking solace, agreed to a Saturday evening rendezvous at Kempfort Mall. Seven minutes past the appointed hour, Ron found himself scanning the faces of passing women, a knot of nervous anticipation tightening in his stomach. Then, a voice, clear and confident, cut through his reverie. “Ron, correct?” He looked up to see a woman whose beauty stopped him in his tracks. “You must be Riya,” he managed, his voice a little hoarse. She confirmed, and as they settled into conversation, the awkwardness melted away. He found himself confessing the raw wounds of his heartbreak. Riya listened, her own story unfolding like a whispered secret: she was searching for someone who embraced her unique fetish. When he inquired, her smile held a knowing mystery. “I don’t want to spoil the mood just yet,” she’d said, her evasion only heightening his curiosity. As the evening drew to a close, Riya asked for a ride home. The gentleman in Ron, still nascent after his emotional battering, agreed. Outside her door, the invitation for coffee hung in the air, a tempting extension of the burgeoning connection. Inside her spacious apartment, over steaming mugs, Riya finally unveiled her secret. Her fantasy, she confessed, was a primal urge to shave men’s heads. She spoke of past partners who’d found it “crazy,” their hasty departures leaving a trail of sadness. Riya looked at him, her eyes vulnerable. “It’s okay if you want to leave,” she offered, a palpable disappointment in her tone. A peculiar calm settled over Ron. He’d lost so much already; perhaps this was a trade he was willing to make. To find connection, to bring this beautiful woman a flicker of happiness, what was the loss of a few inches of hair? “Your fantasy isn’t crazy,” he said, the words surprising even himself. A genuine smile lit up Riya’s face. “Thank you for understanding.” He pressed on, “If shaving my head makes you feel good, then you can shave it.” Riya stared, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Seriously, you want me to shave your head?" Ron chuckled. "Why not? I was thinking about a haircut anyway. And... I'd get to see you in action." The words were barely out of his mouth when Riya, with a sudden burst of energy, launched herself from her chair and kissed him. Pulling back, her eyes locked onto his, she whispered, “Shall we do it now?” The thrill of the unexpected, the shared intimacy of the moment, propelled him forward. “Let’s do it,” he agreed. Excitement surged through Riya. “Let me get the shaving kit.” As she disappeared, Ron savored his coffee, a pragmatic thought surfacing: this sacrifice of his hair should not be in vain. He saw a potential exchange – his hair for her affection. It felt like a surprisingly good deal. Riya returned, a gleaming silver box in her hands. “Come into the bathroom once you’ve finished your coffee.” In the bathroom, Riya arranged a stool before the mirror. “Sit here,” she instructed. Ron complied, feeling a strange sense of surrender. “Take off your shirt,” she added. “There’ll be a lot of shaved hair, and I don’t want to spoil your T-shirt.” He shed his shirt, and Riya, with experienced hands, draped a towel around his neck, then began to spray his head with cool water, her fingers massaging his scalp. “You have thick, long hair,” she murmured, a pleased tone in her voice. “This will be fun.” Ron could only smile. “I know it will be fun for you.” She opened the silver box, revealing a gleaming straight razor, and loaded it with a grim, yet eager, smile. “I hope you like a smooth head shave,” she warned. “If I’m losing all of it,” Ron replied, a shiver tracing his spine, “smooth is the only way to go.” With a wink, she gently guided his head over the sink. The razor met his scalp, the first glide a tentative whisper. Ron’s breath hitched. He lifted his head, a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. Riya paused, lifted a strand of his hair, smelled it with closed eyes, then dropped it into the sink. She ran her fingers over the newly shaved patch, a look of pure satisfaction on her face. Then, she pushed his head back down, continuing her work. With each stroke, Riya’s body pressed closer to his. The sink filled with his dark hair, a growing testament to the transformation. A splash of cold water on his now-bare scalp made him shiver. “What happened, baby?” Riya’s voice was laced with a teasing edge. “Is the water too cold for your shaved scalp?” He confessed it was, and she resumed shaving, her movements becoming more urgent, more intense. The back of his head followed, then both sides. He lifted his head, catching his reflection in the mirror. His head was a stark, bald dome, still dusted with stray hairs. Riya, instead of wiping, continued shaving until the last vestiges of hair were gone. She meticulously cleaned his scalp, then went over it multiple times with the razor, leaving it flawlessly smooth. The cloth now slid effortlessly across his skin. “It’s getting late,” Riya said, her voice softened. “You should stay.” Ron, weary from the prolonged sitting and the strangeness of the experience, agreed. He cleaned himself up and joined her in the living room. A call from the bedroom beckoned, “Come here. I’ve made your bed.” He found Riya in a silky nightdress, a vision of temptation, but exhaustion held him captive. He crawled into bed, murmuring his fatigue. Riya ran her hand over his newly shaven head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Sure, baby.” He fell asleep facing down, hoping for the comfort of her touch. A few hours later, he was roused by Riya. “I can’t sleep,” she whispered. Ron, groggy, asked what he could do. “I want to shave more,” she declared. He turned his head, showing her his smooth scalp. “Baby, do you think I left a single hair?” She shook her head. “I know your head is shaved smooth, but I want to shave your shaved head again.” A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He moved to her lap, cradling his head against her. “I can’t sit on that stool anymore,” he murmured. “If you want to shave my head, do it while I’m sleeping on your lap.” She responded with a flurry of kisses on his scalp, her agreement sealed. She retrieved the razor, positioning his head on her lap. Ron held onto her hips like a cherished teddy bear, closing his eyes. The gentle scraping of the razor against his smoothed scalp was surprisingly soothing. He drifted back to sleep. Morning found him alone in the bed. A call to Riya confirmed she was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. He smiled, a strange contentment blooming within him, the decision to avoid serious relationships already a fading memory. As he walked towards the bathroom, he caught his reflection. He gasped. The person staring back was unrecognizable. Not only was his head perfectly bald, but his beard, mustache, and eyebrows were gone too, leaving his face as smooth and round as an egg. He confronted Riya in the kitchen. Her explanation was chillingly detached. Last night, her desire had become overwhelming. His already shaved head hadn't offered enough. Her gaze had fallen on his facial hair, and she hadn't been able to resist. The look in her eyes, as she spoke, sent a fresh wave of fear through him. “Baby, you’re not going anywhere,” she stated, her voice disturbingly calm. “From now on, you’ll stay with me, and I will shave your head every day. You slept with me last night, so this body is yours, and in return, I will keep shaving your head.” The truth of her madness hit him with full force. He finally understood why her partners had fled. Escaping her clutches, he knew, would be a far greater battle than any he had faced before, and the haunting memory of those eyes would forever chase him in his sleep. He hadn't told her about his previous escape, a small, fleeting piece of knowledge that offered no comfort.

Lilly shaved my head with straight razor - Headshave

 

After being in a relationship for four years, today I broke up with Aarav.
Four years — and yet, it felt like I’d been living with a stranger.

I walked aimlessly along the footpath, tears blurring my vision. My mind was a storm — anger, confusion, heartbreak, all tangled together. I didn’t even know where I was going until I found myself standing outside Lilly’s Barbershop.

Lilly — kind, confident, always with that knowing smile. We weren’t best friends, but she’d always made me feel seen. Her small salon glowed warmly under the afternoon sun.

I pushed open the glass door. The bell chimed softly. Lilly looked up from sweeping hair off the floor and smiled — but her smile faded when she saw my face.

“Riya? What happened?” she asked, walking toward me.

I dropped into one of her salon chairs, exhausted. “Aarav and I… it’s over.”

Her expression softened immediately. She placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

I stared blankly at my reflection in the mirror — my long, wavy hair cascading down, the same hair Aarav always said he loved. It suddenly felt heavy, like a chain.

“Lilly,” I said quietly, “Can you… shave my head?”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me. I want it all gone.”

She shook her head firmly. “No. You’re not thinking straight. You’ll regret it tomorrow.”

I gave a small, bitter laugh. “I already regret four years of my life. This—” I tugged at my hair “—is the least of my problems.”

I started to get up. “Fine, I’ll find another barber.”

“Wait,” she said, exhaling. “If this is really what you want… I’ll do it. But only because I trust you.”

She tied the black cape around my neck, her fingers brushing against my skin. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I need this.”

She reached for her clippers, but I stopped her. “No clippers. I want it shaved — with a straight razor.”

She froze, staring at me through the mirror. “Riya, that’s extreme.”

I met her gaze. “So is heartbreak.”

Lilly sighed deeply, then picked up a spray bottle. “You know, once I start, there’s no going back.”

“I know.”

The mist from the bottle hit my scalp, cool and sharp. She ran her fingers through my hair, separating strands, making it wet and heavy. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of everything I was about to let go.

She loaded a fresh blade into the razor, the metal glinting under the salon lights.
“Last chance,” she murmured.

I nodded. “Do it.”

The sound of the razor’s first stroke sliced through the silence.
Schhhhkkk.

A thick lock slid down the cape and onto the floor.
For a second, both of us froze — my pale scalp was visible, like a wound healing in real time.

Lilly took a deep breath and made another stroke, slower this time. More hair fell. The air grew heavy with the scent of water, metal, and something strangely cleansing.

Each stroke peeled away not just hair, but the weight of memories — the arguments, the apologies, the nights I spent crying into my pillow.

I could feel the razor’s cool edge scraping against my scalp, smooth and deliberate. The rhythm became hypnotic — stroke, wipe, breathe.

“Still sure about this?” Lilly asked softly.

“More than ever,” I whispered.

By the time she finished the top, the cape was buried in a blanket of black hair. My scalp tingled with every stroke. She dusted off loose strands and moved to my right side, tilting my head gently. The razor whispered as it glided across my skin.

Hair slid down my shoulders and pooled on the floor, forming a dark halo around the chair. The sound of the blade became the only thing I could hear.

When she finished the left side, I was already half bald. My reflection looked fierce, strange, almost unrecognizable — and yet, I had never felt more like myself.

Finally, she stood behind me, her expression unreadable. “You’re almost there.”

I smiled faintly. “Finish it.”

With a deep breath, she pressed the razor against the crown of my head and drew it downward, slow and deliberate. My scalp felt raw, alive — each movement left a cool trail of air behind it.

Soon, every trace of my long hair was gone. I was bald. Completely.

But Lilly wasn’t done. She took a brush, dusted my scalp clean, then applied warm shaving foam all over my head.
“This will make it smoother,” she said, her voice quieter now.

Then came the second shave — slower, reversed, even closer. The razor glided effortlessly, and I shivered at the sensation. It was both soothing and electric.

When she was done, she wiped away the foam and stared at her work. My scalp gleamed under the fluorescent light, smooth and pale.

“You look… stunning,” she murmured.

I met her eyes in the mirror. “I feel free.”

She smiled sadly. “You ignored my advice, but maybe this was what you needed.”

I raised my hand instinctively to touch my head, but she slapped it lightly. “Don’t touch it yet — your skin’s sensitive.”

We both laughed. Then she took a small bottle of lotion and gently rubbed it over my scalp. At first, it burned — I flinched.

“Ahh—Lilly!”

“That’s for not listening,” she said with a smirk.

The burn faded into a cool, tingling relief. My whole body relaxed.

Lilly leaned closer, whispering, “You know, it might take a while for it to grow back.”

“I don’t mind,” I said softly. “Maybe I don’t want it to.”

She untied the cape, brushing away the last bits of hair, and stood beside me. For a moment, we both just stared at my reflection — a new version of me staring back.

I smiled. “Thank you. For not stopping me.”

She looked at me through the mirror. “You don’t have to thank me. Just promise me one thing — if you ever feel like doing something this crazy again, you come to me first.”

I laughed. “Deal.”

As I got up to leave, she called after me, “Riya?”

I turned.

Her eyes softened. “You really do look beautiful. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Later, as I walked home in the cool evening breeze, I felt every brush of wind against my bare scalp — raw, real, liberating.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Lilly.

“Can I see you tomorrow? I want to check if your shaved head is still smooth.”

Seema lost bet and shaved her head - Headshave

 

Yesterday, Rohan and I were at home, feeling bored. To kill time, we decided to play Truth or Dare. Rohan went to the kitchen and came back with an empty bottle. We sat cross-legged on the floor, grinning at each other as the game began.

Rohan spun the bottle first. It stopped pointing at him.
I asked, “Truth or dare?”
He smirked, “Truth.”
I thought for a moment and asked, “What’s one thing you don’t like about me?”

He hesitated for a few seconds before saying, “Honestly… I don’t like your long hair.”

I blinked in surprise. “What? You never told me that before!”
He shrugged, “I thought it might upset you, so I kept quiet.”

I just nodded and rolled the bottle again. This time, it stopped pointing toward me.
“Truth or dare?” he asked, with that mischievous smile of his.
I said confidently, “Dare.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Alright… I dare you to let me cut your hair.”

I froze for a second. “You’re kidding, right?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m serious.”

I sighed. “Fine. Do it.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a pair of scissors. My stomach twisted as I sat on the floor in front of him. He straightened my hair gently, and with one sharp snip, I heard the scissors cut through the strands. A lock of my hair slid down onto the floor.

He trimmed around two inches, unevenly.
“There,” he said, “You’ll need to visit a salon to fix it.”

I touched my shortened hair, feeling a wave of regret. Strands of my once-long hair covered the floor. Trying to shake it off, we went back to the game. I could still feel my uneven hair brushing against my neck, reminding me of what I’d just let him do.

I spun the bottle this time. It stopped right in front of him.
He looked nervous. “Truth or dare?” I asked.
“Dare,” he said.

A spark lit up in my mind. I smiled slowly. “Alright then. It’s my turn now.”

I went to the bathroom and came back holding his straight razor. His eyes widened.
“What’s that for?” he asked cautiously.
“I dare you,” I said, “to let me change your hairstyle.”

He hesitated but nodded — the rules were the rules. “Okay, but that razor isn’t for hairstyling,” he joked weakly.
“Leave that to me,” I said.

I made him sit on the floor while I sat comfortably behind him. I poured some water over his hair to wet it and began running the razor carefully over his scalp. His hair started falling in clumps around his shoulders. Within minutes, he was completely bald.

I dusted off his shoulders and smiled at my work. “Now you know how it feels to lose your hair,” I teased. He laughed nervously but said nothing.

We continued the game again, but I was still staring at his newly shaved head — smooth and shiny. He noticed my gaze and chuckled. “What? Planning revenge already?”
I smirked. “Maybe.”

When the bottle spun again, it stopped at me.
I sighed. “Dare,” I said, determined.

Rohan’s eyes gleamed. He got up, took the same straight razor, and said, “Let’s make it fair then.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Wait, what do you mean?”
He grinned. “You cut my hair off completely — now it’s your turn.”

I froze. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” he said, motioning for me to sit down.

I sat on the floor, my heart pounding. He poured some water on my head, wetting my uneven hair. Then, with his thumb pressing gently against the top of my head, he ran the razor across my scalp.

I gasped as I felt the cold metal glide against my skin. My hair began falling in soft clumps all around me, mixing with the hair he’d cut earlier. The sound of the razor and the feeling of hair slipping away were strangely hypnotic.

Rohan kept shaving methodically, not missing a spot. My scalp tingled under each stroke. Soon, my entire head was bare — no strands left, only smooth skin.

He leaned back and smiled, “Now we’re even.”
I looked into the mirror on the wall, barely recognizing myself. My head shone under the light — smooth, bold, and strangely beautiful.

He rubbed his palm over my scalp to check the smoothness, then laughed. “Perfectly bald,” he said proudly.

I touched my head, still in disbelief. “I can’t believe you actually shaved it all off.”
He chuckled, “Now you know how I felt.”

He poured some cold water on my head, making me shiver. I went for a quick warm shower and came back to the living room, where he was making tea.

When I sat down, he handed me a cup and kept glancing at my head. I could feel his eyes on me. Finally, I asked, “What? Do I look that strange?”
He smiled softly, “No. You look… amazing.”

I blushed and took a sip of tea. After a while, he brought some oil and started massaging it onto my scalp.
“It’ll keep your head warm,” he said.
I laughed quietly and let him continue.

His fingers moved gently over my freshly shaved head, and despite everything — the shock, the surprise, the loss — the feeling was strangely pleasant.

She shave my head. Headsahve

 

The clock on her phone glowed 11:47 PM. For Anya, the city breathed a different kind of life after midnight. The frantic energy of Mumbai softened into a quiet hum, the heat of the day relinquishing its grip to a cooler, more intimate breeze. It was on these solitary walks that she felt most herself, untethered from the expectations of her job, her family, her world.

And it was on this walk that the feeling returned, a persistent, thrilling itch just beneath her scalp. It was a desire she’d suppressed for years, a secret fantasy that felt both transgressive and deeply liberating: the desire to feel her head shaved completely, utterly bald.

She was about to dismiss it as another midnight daydream when she saw it. Tucked between a shuttered chaat stall and a sleeping jewelry shop was a narrow storefront. The sign above it was simple, lit by a single, buzzing fluorescent tube: "Priya's Salon - Open." And in the window, reflected in the glass, was the unmistakable silhouette of a barber's chair. A woman was inside, wiping down the mirrors. A female barber.

Anya’s heart hammered against her ribs. It was a sign. It had to be. The pull was magnetic, irresistible. Before her rational mind could talk her out of it, her feet were carrying her across the deserted street. The little bell above the door chimed a soft, clear note as she pushed it open.

The woman, Priya, looked up. She was perhaps in her forties, with kind eyes and a strong, calm presence. Her own hair was cropped short and practical. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see a customer so late.

"Ma'am? How can I help you?" Priya asked, her voice a low, soothing melody.

Anya’s mouth felt dry. She took a steadying breath, the words feeling both terrifying and exhilarating as they left her lips. "I… I would like you to shave my head, Completely. With a straight razor."

Priya’s eyes flickered over Anya’s long, dark hair, which fell nearly to her waist. She didn’t gasp or question. She simply nodded, a quiet understanding passing between them. "Please," she said, gesturing to the chair. "Sit."

Anya settled into the deep leather embrace of the barber chair. It felt ancient and solid. Priya snapped a crisp, black cape around her neck, its weight both a confinement and a comfort. She gathered Anya’s hair in her hands, a heavy, living curtain. "Are you sure?" she asked, her tone not of doubt, but of final confirmation.

"Yes," Anya whispered, her voice firm. "I'm sure."

With a few efficient snips of her shears, Priya began. The sound was loud in the quiet shop. Chunks of Anya’s hair, the hair she had cared for her entire life, fell silently onto the cape and the tiled floor. There was no hesitation in Priya’s movements, only a confident, respectful precision. With each cut, Anya felt lighter, the physical weight of her past lifting away. Soon, all that remained was a rough, short stubble covering her scalp.

Priya moved to the side cabinet and opened a worn leather roll. Nestled inside was a long, fearsomely beautiful straight razor with a mother-of-pearl handle. Anya watched, mesmerized, as Priya stropped the blade methodically on a long leather strap. The shhh-click, shhh-click sound was a ritual, a prelude to the main event.

Next came the lather. Priya whipped up a warm, rich soap in a porcelain bowl, the scent of sandalwood and mint filling the air. Using a badger-hair brush, she applied it to Anya’s scalp in slow, circular motions. The warmth was sublime, the brush tingling against the sensitive skin now exposed to the air. Anya closed her eyes, surrendering to the sensation.

Then came the razor.

The first touch of the cool steel against the nape of her neck made her gasp. It was a shock, impossibly intimate. Priya’s left hand stretched the skin taut, her right hand holding the razor with an artist’s grace.

The first stroke was a revelation. It wasn't a scrape or a scratch, but a smooth, clean, silent swoosh. Anya felt the blade glide over her skin, its keen edge shearing away the stubble with effortless authority. There was a faint, gritty sound, like fine sandpaper on wood, but the feeling was pure, unadulterated sensation. A path of incredible smoothness followed in the razor’s wake, the air feeling shockingly cool and new on the bared scalp.

Priya worked with a meditative rhythm. Stroke, wipe the razor on a towel, stroke again. She moved from the nape upwards, each pass unveiling more of Anya’s naked scalp. Anya was lost in the feeling. The gentle scraping vibration traveled through her skull, a resonant hum that felt like it was cleansing her from the inside out. It was a sensory overload—the sound of the blade, the smell of the soap, the sight of her dark hair vanishing in the white lather on the towel, and above all, the breathtaking feeling of the razor sculpting her new self.

She felt the blade trace the delicate curve behind her ear, the subtle hollows of her temples. Priya’s touch was never rough, always confident and sure. When she shaved over the crown of Anya’s head, the sensation was amplified, a direct connection that made her spine tingle.

Finally, after what felt like both an eternity and a single second, the last stroke was done. Priya wiped Anya’s head with a warm, damp towel, rinsing away any trace of lather. Then, to Anya’s surprise, she poured a small amount of a cool, astringent lotion into her hands and massaged it into Anya’s scalp. It was the final, clarifying act.

Priya turned the chair to face the mirror.

Anya opened her eyes.

The woman staring back was a stranger, and yet, she was the most "Anya" she had ever been. Her head was perfectly, beautifully bald. The fluorescent light gleamed on the smooth dome of her scalp, highlighting the elegant shape of her skull, the graceful line of her neck. She raised a trembling hand and touched it. The skin was ultrasensitive, like a newborn’s, impossibly smooth and cool. A dizzying wave of freedom and power washed over her. She wasn't hiding anymore.

She looked at Priya, her eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. "Thank you," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Priya simply smiled, a knowing, deep smile. She removed the cape with a flourish, and Anya stood up, feeling the unfamiliar kiss of the overhead fan on her bare scalp. She paid, the transaction feeling trivial compared to the transformation that had just occurred.

As she stepped back out into the midnight air, the world felt different. The breeze wasn’t just on her face; it was on her head, a constant, thrilling caress. With every step, she felt lighter, stronger, and utterly, completely, herself. The city slept on, unaware of the liberation that had just occurred in a small, lit-up barber shop, where a woman with a straight razor had helped another woman find her true reflection.

How is my shaved head? headshave

It was the peak of the Indian summer, the kind of heat that presses down on you, relentless and humid. Being a young Indian man, I have typical thick, dark hair, and right now, it was a mess—sticky and heavy on my head. Even two minutes after a bath, my skin was slick with sweat. I'd planned on a simple haircut, but the thought of that thick mop on my scalp for even one more day made me miserable. A buzzcut wouldn't even cut it. I needed to go all the way.

Without a second thought, I headed to my usual spot, Priya Aunty's barbershop. Aunty is a wonderful, kind lady, and she's always insisted on handling my hair herself. When I walked in, the shop was surprisingly quiet. "Aunty, where is everyone?" I asked. She smiled, saying her staff was out for lunch, and she was just about to close up for the afternoon lull—no customers.

"I’m here for a haircut, Aunty," I said, taking a seat in the first chair.

She came over, draped the cape around me, and ran her fingers through my thick, sweaty hair. "What'll it be today?"

"No haircut, Aunty. Buzz it all off. This heat is unbearable because of my hair," I groaned.

She gave my hair a thoughtful tug. "Your hair is a bit rough right now, beta (son). A buzz will still leave stubble. In this heat, and for your scalp's health, a razor headshave is the best choice. It'll be completely smooth."

I hesitated for just a second, picturing myself utterly bald. Then the wave of heat hit me again, and I nodded, "Go for it, Aunty. Razor shave."

She started the headshave process with care, first spraying cool water and massaging it in to relax the scalp. Then, she applied a thick, white, soap-like gel—the classic Indian shaving cream—working it into my hair until my entire head was enveloped in a frothy white helmet.

She picked up the straight razor—a ustra—from the ledge, snapping a fresh blade into place with a practiced flick. As she tilted my head down toward my chest, I could feel her soft thumb press against my crown, parting the gelled hair.

The first stroke was a revelation. It went from the front hairline, smoothly back toward the crown. The razor scraped softly, and instantly, I could feel the difference between the shaved scalp and the still-hairy sections. It was the most immediate sense of coolness I had ever felt. With the second stroke, a thick, soapy clump of dark hair fell onto the cape in my lap.

Aunty worked steadily, pulling the skin taut and guiding the razor top-to-bottom. The sound was a rhythmic shush-shush as the blade cleared the way. I could feel the delicate rub of the blade and the gentle pressure of her fingers following the curve of my head. After a few concentrated minutes, she paused to wipe the blade.

I looked in the mirror and burst out laughing. I had a ridiculous half-shaved look—bald in front, a puffy mess in the back. Aunty chuckled with me. "You’re a brave boy, getting a full shave! Just be careful, these Indian girls are used to hair. They might not like the completely bald head!"

She bent my head again and resumed, moving to the sides now, meticulously clearing the stubborn hair near my ears. Soon, the front and sides were done. She moved behind me, asking me to hold the pose. The feeling was the same, maybe even more intense at the back of my neck where the razor felt like it was lifting layers of heat away.

In no time, it was done. Where there had been a sweaty, tangled mess, there was now a sleek, shining dome.

Aunty rubbed her palms over my head to check for any missed spots. The friction was a pleasure. "Smooth as a marble," she declared.

Then came the best part. She poured a generous amount of cool, fragrant oil into her hands and began a slow, firm head massage. Her hands slipped over my scalp like warm water, with zero resistance. The "bald feeling" was incredible—it was lightness, cleanliness, and coolness all rolled into one. Every nerve ending in my scalp seemed to wake up, tingling with enjoyment. The smoothness was absolute.

Finally, she wiped the excess oil and removed the cape. "Do you like your smooth shaved head?" she asked, with a proud smile.

I ran my own hand over my scalp. It was perfectly smooth, cool, and unbelievably light. "I love it, Aunty. I want to come back next week to get it done again!"

She laughed, a warm, hearty Indian laugh. "You can come every day if you want! Just be prepared, beta. With a head this smooth, you might just scare off all the girls!"