Got my head shaved smooth - Headshave 2026

 

I was a 22-year-old girl with cascading, hip-length hair. Inspired by the bohemian aesthetic of Captain Jack Sparrow, I had spent years meticulously maintaining my tresses. I was fiercely protective of them; I never allowed anyone to touch a single strand. My identity was tied to my hair.

But one day, everything changed. My uncle called to say my grandmother had passed away. My parents and I rushed to our ancestral village. When the 10th day—the daskarm—arrived, tradition dictated a ritual sacrifice. Usually, it was for the men, but in our specific clan’s tradition, the eldest granddaughter was also expected to undergo a headshave.

I flatly refused. My parents tried to support me, but the village elders were unyielding. They insisted it was a sacred custom. Panicked, I tried to flee to a neighboring town, but my cousins were dispatched to bring me back for my appointment with the blade.

One cousin eventually tracked me down. He lied, saying the villagers had changed their minds, and led me back to the group. Once there, he let out a mocking laugh. "Fooled you," he smirked. I turned to run, but my elder cousins grabbed me by my long ponytail. I sobbed and pleaded, but they dragged me toward the village barber.

The barber didn't have a shop; he worked from the corridor of his home. My cousins pushed me toward him, shouting, "Iska fatafat mundan karo, ek bhi baal nahi bachna chahiye!" (Give her a quick tonsure, not a single hair should remain!) Seeing my tears, the barber hesitated, but my cousin invoked the name of my uncle, the village Panchayat leader. The barber sighed and nodded.

"You look like a princess with this hair," he whispered, "but soon you will be a baldgirl."

Because I wouldn't stop struggling, they moved the ritual to the secluded lakeside. To ensure I couldn't run away again, they forced me to remove my outer clothes, leaving me shivering and exposed. I hid behind a large bush, mortified, as the barber approached with his kit. My cousin yelled out, "Make sure it's a completely smooth shaved head. Shave it so close that it takes months for the hair to return!"

The barber knelt beside me. "It's okay, beta," he said gently. "It will grow back." He looked at my cousins for the final signal. They nodded. He poured a bowl of cool water over my scalp, massaging the moisture into my long, thick hair. "Your hair is truly magnificent," he remarked before tilting my chin down.

He unfolded his straight razor. I felt the cold steel touch the very top of my scalp. With the first stroke down the middle, a massive weight lifted. I felt a sudden, sharp cooling breeze hit my skin. He tilted my head to the right, and a heavy lump of dark hair slid off my shoulder and into my lap. Then he tilted my head to the left, and the rest followed.

The headshaving took only a few minutes. I kept my eyes squeezed shut until he whispered that he was finished. He handed me a small hand-mirror.

I stared. I didn't recognize the person looking back. My bald head was pale and gleaming, reflecting the sunlight off the water. I was a baldgirl. The embarrassment was overwhelming as my cousins laughed at my new look, and I spent the rest of the week hiding under a scarf.

Now, months have passed. My hair has grown back about two inches, a soft fuzz covering my scalp. But I find myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror every morning, rubbing my palm against the grain of my hair and missing the sensation of the wind on my bare skin.

I realized the tears I shed that day weren't just for my lost hair—they were for the girl I used to be. I’ve realized I don't want my long hair back. In fact, I just bought my own straight razor. I think it's time for another headshave.

No haircut, Just shave your head bald - Headshave

The afternoon sun was streaming into my office while I worked through a mountain of paperwork. Seema, my secretary, walked in with her usual professional poise, notepad in hand. When I asked about my schedule, she noted the afternoon was clear, save for a haircut appointment in the evening. I leaned back, offering a playful smile. "What do you think, Seema? How should I get it cut this time?" "Honestly? I think a bald head would look good on you," she said. I raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. She quickly laughed it off, saying she was just kidding, but I pressed her. I told her that since she spent so much time with me, her opinion carried weight.

"Well," she challenged, "if you really want my suggestion, you should go for a full headshave. Get it smooth shaved." The air in the room changed. She didn't think I’d do it; I could see the spark of a dare in her eyes. I stood up and grabbed my coat. "If that’s what you want, let’s get it done. Come with me." The atmosphere at the shop was quiet until we walked in. The barber, expecting a routine trim, looked confused as I sat in the chair and gestured toward Seema. "She’s in charge today," I said. "Whatever she picks." Seema scanned the style posters on the wall. Her finger landed decisively on a picture of a man with a completely smooth shaved head. "That one," she said firmly. "Smooth bald." The barber paused, his hand hovering over his tools. "Seriously? You want a total headshave?" "Do it," I confirmed. The barber draped the cape over me, the fabric tight around my neck. He saturated my hair with water, making it heavy and dark. Then, with a clinical click, he loaded a fresh, gleaming blade into the straight razor. Seema’s expression shifted from playful to concerned. She waited for me to call it off, but I remained silent. The first stroke of the straight razor was cold and decisive. He started at the very top, dragging the blade toward the nape of my neck. A wide, pale path of skin appeared instantly. Seema’s eyes went wide as she watched the first clump of hair falling after shaved head was initiated. I caught Seema’s reflection in the mirror. She was mesmerized and seemingly stunned that I was actually becoming a bald head man right before her eyes. As the razor moved to the front, more hair falling obscured the cape until the top of my head was entirely bare. Within minutes, the sides were gone too. The barber finished and wiped away the stray lather. I stood up, feeling the sudden chill of the air on my skin. I was now completely, undeniably bald. As we walked to the car, the silence was heavy. Once inside, I broke it. "Well? What do you think of the headshave?" Seema couldn't stop staring at my smooth shaved head. She burst into a fit of nervous, excited laughter. "I can't believe you did it! You could have stopped him at any second!" "I told you," I said, looking her in the eye, "I did it because you asked." She reached out, her palm resting against the skin. She began rubbing my shaved head, her fingers exploring the new texture. "It’s bold," she whispered, "but you know... I think it could have been shaved even smoother." I leaned in closer. "Are you volunteering to make it a smooth shaved head yourself?" She gave me a look that was no longer professional—it was purely flirty. "I think I’d like that." "Only if you're the one holding the razor," I replied. "Deal," she said. "My place. I have everything we need to get it perfectly smooth."

Love headshave - Man head shaver

 

It was a warm morning, and I was waiting for the train. With the sweet whistle sound, I heard it coming. I entered and saw her. She was sitting opposite my seat. She was so beautiful and pretty that I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She also noticed me doing it, but didn’t feel strange. Maybe she gets this more often. Finally, I reached my destination. Guess what, she's also off at the same station. The reason for my visit was to explore one of the oldest and most divine temples.

The temple was well known for its belief that anything wished there with true faith is granted. I saw her there and started thinking, is this any coincidence, or does the universe want us to be together? She saw me and walked straight toward me. Seeing her getting closer made me nervous, but I tried to stay calm. There she was, standing in front of me. She looked me in the eyes and said, “ Are you following me or are we both following each other?” That question made me confused. That look on my face made her laugh. I also smiled, looking at her laugh. That was an icebreaker for us.

We started chatting and got to know each other. While talking, she asked about my business there. I responded, “Nothing much. I wanted to see the place where all the wishes are granted.” She looked me in the eyes and asked, “ So what do you think, does this place really grant wishes?” I took my eyes off her, and while looking at the floor, I said, “I don’t know. I think I got what I need,” and looked back at her. She smiled and said, “You know, the complete story is that you have to donate something in order to get what you wish.” I kept looking at her, waiting for the remaining piece of the story. She continued, “People offer their hair,” and looked at me, and rolled her eyes at my hair. I said, “I can pay that price.” She got a little closer to my face and said, “Are you sure?” I looked in her eyes and said, “My wish is much prettier than my hair.” She smiled and said, “Ok lets see if you can really do it.”

She stood up and asked me to follow her. She took me to the place where the offering takes place. After reaching there, she told me, “So here we are, make your offer, and I can bet you will get your wish.” She looked me in my eyes. I guess she wants to test my faith. I took my place on the offering seat and was waiting for my turn. She was standing there watching. She was checking if I would stay or run off. When it was my turn, and I was still sitting there, she walked up to me and said, “ You don’t have to do this. I was just kidding.” I kept my head down and said, “I have to. Can’t risk losing my wish.” Before she could reach the barber, spray water on my hair and made it wet. Then she took a straight razor and placed it at the center. Then she started shaving my head. After two strokes of the razor, a big lump of hair fell down on my lap. The bare scalp was clearly visible on top of my head. In no time, she shaved my head from the top. Then she bent my head down and shaved from the back. My shaved hair was falling on my back and then hitting the ground. She was still standing there watching me getting shaved. Within 10 minutes, I was completely bald. I stood up and looked at her with a smile. She was looking at me with guilt on her face. I walked up to her and said, “What happened? You don’t like bald men?” She got tears in her eyes and ran off from there. I followed her. She ran to a place where there was no crowd and said, “I was just messing with you. You shouldn’t have shaved your head.” I replied, “I told you, my hair is not prettier than my wish.” Then she looked at me and said, “You know what, I cannot make any wish.” I looked at her with a mysterious look and asked, ”Why?” She said, “Because I don’t have anything to offer,” and then she took off her wig. She was completely bald. She said, “I have a condition. I never had and never will have hair on my head,” and started crying. I held her face and made her look at me and said, “I did not know that my wish is so beautiful.” She raised her eyes and looked at me and said, “You are saying this only to comfort me. I know what your next words are.” I said, “You don’t have to think, I will tell you. Please marry me.” She was surprised and said, “What? You want to marry me even after knowing I will be bald forever?” I said, “ I am repeating myself, I wish is prettier than hair. And I already knew about your hair”. She was surprised to know that and asked, “How did you know that?” I replied, In the train, while you were adjusting your wig, I saw you.” She said, “So all this time you were aware of my baldness and still tried to be close to me?” I said, “Yes, I liked you when I saw you first. And after knowing you more, I decided are the only one, and the reason I offered my hair so that I can get you in my life.” She again got tears in her eyes and hugged me.

Now it’s been six months, and we are happily married. Tomorrow we are both going to the same temple where we met to offer my hair for the well-being of our to be born child, who is coming into our lives in a few months.

Headshaving photo shoot 2026 - Headshave EP3

The studio’s warmth, steeped in the fragrance of espresso, tightened like a drawn wire when she entered. Sandro felt the shift in his bones. He took a slow sip, the liquid bitter and perfect. Seema. A decade had sculpted the girl into something devastating. Her gaze found him, and a slow, knowing smile touched her lips. It wasn’t a greeting; it was a reminder. I remember everything, too. He fought the urge to touch his hair. His mullet—the messy, curly, artistic rebellion that was entirely her fault. She’d been the one, all those years ago in his shabby Roman apartment, who’d taken the shears to his long, dark curls. He’d watched her in the mirror, awestruck by her fierce concentration. Now, it was copied in fashion editorials and mocked by men who understood safety, not statement. Dull men like Liam. The name was a sour taste in his mouth. Her sturdy, broad-shouldered boyfriend. The kind of man who built things from timber, not from dreams. “Sandro,” she said, her voice a low cello note. “Seema.” The next hour was a quiet, humiliating experience. Posing in the first look—a column of ivory silk—she felt the disconnect. Sandro strode to the monitor, slipping his glasses on to scrutinize the test shots. “You look,” he said, his Italian accent clipping the words, “like you are in a cult. Is this for him? The lumberjack? I can only see… hair. It is a landslide.” He called over a stylist. “Can we see her face? Per favore. Just… try.” The stylist tried to pin the vast empire of chestnut hair back. It refused to stay. “Basta!” he snapped. The idea, terrifying and brilliant, crystallized. He stepped close, his fingers trembling slightly as they touched a silken wave. He saw it in her eyes: she was bored of conventional beauty. She was starving for the fervent, arrogant passion that matched her own. “It has to go,” he murmured. Her eyes widened. “Headshave. We can’t have it like this.” The air between them was a live wire. “Sandro, no. I can’t. Liam—” The name—Liam—landed like a struck match. Sandro’s jaw tightened. “The lumberjack. Will I be in trouble with him?” “Yes,” she stiffened. “Good,” he purred. As the hair team descended, he raised a single hand. “Stop. I’ll do it myself.” “What? Sandro, this is insane—” “You are a masterpiece collecting dust, Seema. Let me remind the world what they’re forgetting.” The defensiveness melted into a weary, vulnerable acceptance. “Fine,” she whispered. “Do it.” Sandro’s demeanor switched to crisp command. “Clear a space. Chair under the key light. Mirror. Clippers. No guard. let’s make it more interesting. Let's shave your head with a straight razor.” He took his place behind her. The clippers hummed to life, a hungry sound. He lifted the heavy curtain of her hair, exposing the vulnerable nape of her neck. “Ready?” he murmured. He gave a single, sharp nod to the photographer. Now. The first touch of the cold steel blades to the nape of her neck was a shock. A violent, shaving-hair feeling was transmitted through his fingers and into her skull. She gasped, her hands clutching the arms of the chair. He began at the base, shaving her head with a focused, brutal efficiency. A wide, naked path opened up through the dense forest of chestnut. Great, heavy locks of hair fell away, soundless against the roar of the clippers. The physical weight of her past, of Liam’s preference, sloughed away onto the floor. Shaved hair falling everywhere—over her shoulders, onto the ivory silk, piling at her feet like a discarded identity. Sandro didn't stop. He moved the razor over the crown, the blades shearing everything down to the skin. The sensation was extraordinary: a deep, resonant vibration traveling through her scalp, rattling the cage of her ribs. She was giving him this. She was letting him erase the version of her that existed for the world. Finally, he stood before her. The long hair was gone, but the work was unfinished. He picked warm lather. The studio held its breath. With practiced, steady strokes, he began the final transformation. The blade scraped softly against her skin. She watched in the mirror as her smooth, shaved scalp began to emerge, pale and luminous under the studio lights. The headshaving was a ritual, a stripping away of every defense. When he finished, he stepped back. Sandro’s gaze was locked on her reflection. He watched as Seema's hands, tentative as birds, lifted from the arms of the chair. Her fingertips made contact with her own scalp. Her eyes flew wide. Her palms flattened against the smooth, shaved scalp, a sensation so foreign it drew a sharp, shaky gasp from her lips. She skimmed the elegant architecture of her head—the shell of her ear now starkly elegant, the perfect dome of her crown. “Seema,” he said, his voice a rough prayer. She stared. Gone was the waterfall. In its place was total exposure. It highlighted the perfect oval of her face, the arch of her brows, the stunning expanse of her neck. It was radical. It was brutally elegant. “It’s all gone,” she whispered. Her eyes found his in the glass. She thought of Liam, and for the first time, the thought didn't make her shrink. Liam would see Sandro’s fingerprints all over her, but more importantly, he would see a woman he no longer recognized. Sandro saw the moment the fear turned into triumph. He stood, clapping his hands once. “Now,” he said, his voice ringing with authority. “We shoot the clothes. And we shoot them on this. No more hiding.” Seema looked at the woman in the mirror—stark, bald, and powerful. She could not deny the terrifying, exhilarating truth: she loved this version of herself more.

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.