This is my story of how I became a baldgirl just a few weeks ago.
I’d been living with my mum, only seeing my dad on weekends. Our relationship was rocky; we fought constantly until she finally told me she wanted me out. My dad had always said I had a place with him, so I moved in. I kept the same school, so luckily, I didn't lose my friends.
One Monday morning, I finished styling my long, edgy faux-hawk and went to meet Maya, who I always walked to school with. After five minutes, I saw Maya approaching with her hoodie pulled tight over her head. I didn't think it was cold enough for a hood.
"Morning!" Maya said as she reached me.
"Hey Maya. Why the hood?" I asked.
"Remember I said I was getting a haircut on Saturday?" she replied, pulling back the fabric to reveal a gleaming, smooth shaved head.
"Oh my god, that’s amazing!" I exclaimed, reaching out to rub the velvet surface of her scalp.
"Yeah, it’s so freeing," Maya laughed. "My brother’s friend offered me fifty quid if I’d become a baldgirl for his photography project. Before I knew it, I was in the chair losing my length."
The whole morning, I couldn't focus. I had already been thinking about asking my dad if I could go bald for the summer—he’s been rocking a shaved head for two years. Seeing Maya made me certain. At lunch, we met our friends Sarah and Chloe, who both had the same edgy style I did.
"Are you going for the bald head look too?" Chloe asked.
"I’m seriously thinking about it," I replied.
After school, I told Maya my plan. "I'm going to ask my dad to perform my headshave this weekend."
When I got home, I waited for the right moment. "Dad, I want my head shaved on Saturday. If you won't do it, Maya’s brother said he would."
My dad looked surprised. "You want to be a baldgirl? What if you hate it?"
"It’ll grow back, Dad. Unlike yours!" I teased. He eventually agreed to "think about it."
The rest of the week was torture. Every time I asked, he just said, "Wait until Saturday." Friday night was the worst; I barely slept, tossing and turning, imagining the feeling of the blade. I finally drifted off around 5:00 AM.
I woke up at nine to a knock on my door. I jumped out of bed, and there was Maya standing there with a camera. "I believe you have an appointment?" she smirked, pointing toward the bathroom.
My heart hammered against my ribs. In the bathroom, my dad was waiting with his professional clippers. I sat on the stool, a towel draped over my shoulders.
"Ready to say goodbye to the hair?" Dad asked.
"Just start buzzing," I said, my voice trembling with excitement.
He flicked the switch. The hum was loud in the small room. He took the first swipe right down the center. I watched in the mirror as three inches of hair fell into my lap. He moved quickly, stripping away the faux-hawk until I was covered in fine stubble. Then, he applied a thick layer of warm shaving foam.
He picked up the straight razor. This was the part I’d dreamed about. He moved the blade with the grain first, then against it for that perfect, smooth shaved head finish. When he wiped away the excess cream, I gasped. I looked entirely different—stronger, bolder.
"It's incredible," I whispered, rubbing my new bald head.
"You look amazing," Maya said, snapping a final photo. "I had such a hard time keeping the secret that your dad called me Tuesday to set this up!"
We went into town to meet Sarah and Chloe. I caught my reflection in every shop window, fascinated by the girl staring back. Sarah actually ended up having her headshaving done a week later for a charity event, and Chloe is planning hers for the end of term.
I’ve been maintaining the look for two months now, and I love the ritual of the straight razor every few days. But yesterday, I found an old photo of my grandmother from when she was my age. She was wearing a headscarf, and my dad finally told me the truth: she didn't lose her hair to age. She had started a tradition of "shedding the old self" every decade.
I realized then that I wasn't just following a trend or copying Maya. I felt an odd, phantom tingle on my scalp, almost like a cellular memory. I looked at the razor in my hand and realized I hadn't just changed my hair—I had finally stepped into a lineage of women who weren't afraid to be seen exactly as they are.
