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.