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.”