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.