headshave fetisher Priya Aunty

 

Ron had always been fond of Priya Aunty, his mother's friend from college days. She was known in their small, tight-knit community for her unique style and vibrant personality. Every summer, when Ron visited his parents in their quaint town nestled between the hills of Kerala, a visit to Priya Aunty was a tradition, a ritual almost, filled with laughter, stories, and the scent of her famous homemade pickles.

This year, though, Ron arrived with a problem. His hair had been damaged by an experimental hair treatment gone wrong; it was brittle, uneven, and no amount of care seemed to revive it. His usual confidence was shaken when he looked in the mirror each morning, seeing the sad state of his once lush hair.

Upon his arrival, Priya Aunty immediately noticed the change. "Ron, what have you done to your beautiful hair?" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of concern and curiosity. She had always been particular about hair, often speaking of its spiritual and aesthetic significance.

"It was an accident with some hair product," Ron confessed, his tone laced with embarrassment. "I've been trying to fix it, but..."

Priya Aunty, with her sharp eyes and quicker mind, proposed an unconventional solution. "You know, sometimes, the best way to mend is to start anew," she mused, her gaze assessing him with a peculiar warmth. "Have you ever considered shaving it all off?"

Ron recoiled at the thought. "No, no, I couldn't possibly..." His voice trailed off as he imagined his reflection bald, the very idea striking dread in his heart.

But Priya Aunty was not one to give up easily. She began narrating tales of her own past, how she once shaved her head in solidarity with her mother who was battling cancer. "It was liberating, Ron. It's just hair; it grows back. But the feeling of starting fresh? That's priceless. Besides, your hair isn't just damaged; it looks like it's crying for help."

Seeing Ron's hesitation, she continued with a gentle, persuasive tone, "Think about it. No more bad hair days, just a clean slate. And trust me, you'll look quite distinguished." She laughed, her eyes twinkling with mischief and kindness.

After hours of conversation, stories, and the persuasive power of Priya Aunty's logic, Ron found himself less resistant to the idea. He was swayed not just by her words but by her passion for the simplicity and purity of baldness, something she described as a form of beauty in its own right.

Finally, with a mix of trepidation and curiosity, Ron agreed. Priya Aunty clapped her hands in delight and led him to her special room, where she had set up a barber's chair surrounded by mirrors. The room was filled with an array of grooming tools; among them was a beautifully maintained straight razor, which she held up with reverence.

She draped a cloth around Ron's shoulders, and with a ceremonial gesture, she began. The first stroke of the razor was like a whisper against his scalp, a sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room. Each subsequent stroke brought more of his hair tumbling down, creating a small, dark pool around the chair. Priya moved with the grace of an artist, her enjoyment palpable in the air, her focus absolute.

Ron, however, watched his hair fall with a mix of awe and sadness. The transformation was stark, immediate. There was no going back. The room, now filled with his hair, seemed to mourn with him, yet there was an undeniable newness to the air.

When the last strand was shaved away, Priya Aunty stepped back, admiring her work. Ron's head was now smooth and shiny, a stark contrast to the man who had walked in. She fetched a bottle of sandalwood oil, warming it slightly between her palms before applying it to his scalp. The sensation was soothing, grounding him back to the present.

"You look wonderful," Priya Aunty said, her voice filled with pride. "Like a new man."

Ron touched his head, feeling the strange, unfamiliar smoothness. He looked in the mirror, expecting to see a stranger but found someone different yet undeniably himself. The sadness was there, but so was a sense of liberation, of having shed not just hair but perhaps, some of his old self-doubt.

"Thank you, Priya Aunty," Ron said, his voice steadier now, a smile creeping onto his lips as he realized the truth in her words.

They spent the rest of the evening talking, laughing, and enjoying the simple beauty of the moment, the room now a testament to change, growth, and the beginning of something new.

This story portrays the journey from resistance to acceptance, highlighting personal growth and the beauty of transformation, even if it begins with loss.

Secret barber

 

Ron had always been the type to stick to routine. Every six weeks, on a Saturday morning, he would make his way to "The Clipper's Haven," his neighborhood barber shop where he'd get his usual trim. But this Saturday was different. The shop was dark, the sign on the door flipped to "Closed for Renovations." Disappointment settled on him like a heavy cloak. His hair had grown too long, and the summer heat was making it unbearable.

Muttering under his breath, Ron contemplated his options. He could wait another week, but the thought of enduring another sweltering week with his current mop was less than appealing. He wandered aimlessly, his mind racing for a solution. That's when he stumbled upon Seema, his neighbor, who was watering her garden.

Seema was a woman in her late thirties, known for her vibrant personality and her penchant for both gardening and, as Ron would soon discover, hair styling. She noticed the frustration etched on Ron's face.

"What's got you looking like you've lost your best friend?" she asked with a warm smile.

"It's nothing," Ron sighed, "just the barbershop is closed, and I need a headshave."

Seema's eyes lit up with an idea. "Well, you're in luck. I used to work at a salon back in Mumbai. I can shave your head if you'd like."

Ron hesitated. The idea of having his head shaved by someone other than his regular barber was daunting, but Seema's confidence was compelling. After a bit of convincing, where Seema promised expert handling with her straight razor, Ron agreed, albeit nervously.

They moved to her back patio, where she had set up a makeshift barber station under a large, ancient oak tree. The soft hum of the river nearby provided a calming backdrop. Seema fetched a barber's chair from her garage, surprisingly well-maintained, and dusted it off before gesturing for Ron to sit.

"Trust me," she said as she draped a clean, crisp white sheet over Ron, securing it around his neck to catch the falling hair. She then brought out her straight razor, a beautiful piece that gleamed under the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. It was sharp, its edge promising precision.

Seema started by wetting Ron's hair, her hands gentle yet firm, ensuring every strand was damp and ready. She explained each step, her voice soothing, "First, we'll cut off the bulk to make the shaving easier."

Using scissors, she snipped away, chunks of hair falling around Ron like autumn leaves, each snip a step closer to a new look. The sound of the scissors was rhythmic, almost meditative, and with each cut, Ron felt a strange sense of liberation.

After the initial cut, Seema prepared the straight razor. She lathered Ron's head with warm shaving cream, the scent of sandalwood filling the air. "Now for the real art," she said, her voice tinged with excitement.

She stood behind him, her posture perfect, demonstrating the years of experience she had. The first stroke of the razor was cautious, gliding from the back of his head towards the front. The razor moved with a whisper, the hair parting from his scalp like the parting of the Red Sea. Ron watched in the mirror she had placed in front of him, seeing the bald skin appear, smooth and shockingly pale against the remaining hair.

Each stroke was deliberate, the razor's edge cutting through the hair with surgical precision. The falling hairs made a soft pattering sound as they hit the sheet and then the ground, forming small mounds of black and brown, a stark contrast to the bright green grass.

Seema's hands were steady, her focus absolute. She maintained the angle of the razor just right, ensuring no nicks or cuts, only the clean, smooth glide of steel against skin. Ron could feel the coolness of the air on his newly bared scalp, a sensation both alien and liberating.

As more of his scalp was revealed, Ron couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions—vulnerability at the bareness, but also a newfound sense of freedom. Seema, sensing his mixed feelings, kept up a light-hearted conversation, talking about her days in the salon, the stories of her clients, which helped to distract and reassure Ron.

Finally, after what seemed like both an eternity and a mere moment, Seema wiped away the last of the shaving cream, revealing a completely bald head. She held up a mirror, allowing Ron to see himself from all angles. His scalp, now unburdened by hair, reflected the light, and for the first time, he saw the shape of his head clearly, the contours and the smoothness of his skin.

"How do you feel?" Seema asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity.

Ron touched his head, the sensation of his own skin under his fingers new and strange. "It's... different," he admitted, "but I like it. It's like shedding an old skin."

Seema smiled, pleased with her work. "Sometimes, all we need is a change to see things differently, or even to see ourselves."

They cleaned up together, sweeping away the hair, the remnants of Ron's old look now just part of the earth. The sun was setting, casting long shadows, and the river's murmur seemed like a melody of change.

Ron thanked Seema, promising to recommend her services if she ever decided to take up barbering again. As he walked back to his home, he felt lighter, not just from the hair he'd lost but from the experience itself. The world seemed a bit brighter, his perspective slightly altered.

That night, as he looked in his bathroom mirror, Ron couldn't help but smile at his reflection. The headshave had been more than just a haircut; it was a moment of connection, trust, and unexpected beauty in the ordinary. And who knew? Perhaps this would become his new routine, not just for the shave but for the story it carried with it.