The tactical error of my relationship wasn’t dating Chloe; it was underestimate her obsession. For the last six months, Chloe’s hands had a singular, maddening purpose: pulling my hair.
It started innocently enough, a playful twirling of my locks while we watched a movie. But soon, it mutated into a full-blown compulsion. Half of her day was spent mechanically yanking, tugging, and running her fingers through my thick, dark hair. It didn’t matter if I was driving, cooking, or typing an email—the inevitable sharp tug on my scalp was always there. I told her plenty of times to stop pulling my hair, begging for mercy, but she simply couldn’t resist.
So, I came up with an ultimate, scorched-earth plan. I would remove the temptation entirely. I would get a total headshave. If I was completely bald, there would be absolutely nothing left for her fingers to latch onto.
I secretly booked an appointment with a trendy local salon. The timing was perfect: Chloe had an important corporate meeting today at noon, which was the exact same time I scheduled my appointment. At noon sharp, she left our apartment in a rush. I waited a cautious thirty minutes before slipping out myself, smiling at the brilliant simplicity of my plan.
The moment I walked into the salon, the bell chiming above the door, a chillingly familiar voice cut through the air.
"Going somewhere?"
I froze. I spun around, and there she was, standing right behind me with her arms crossed. Her meeting had evidently ended early.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.
Sweat beaded on my forehead. "I... I was just planning to get a new hairstyle," I stammered.
Chloe stared at me for a couple of agonizing seconds, evaluating my expression. "Okay," she said slowly. "But don't get it short. I like it long. You know how much I love your hair."
Before I could craft a diplomatic lie, the barberette walked out from the back room, holding a clipboard. She looked at me and asked, "Are you ready for your headshave, sir?"
I was completely busted. Chloe’s head snapped toward the stylist, her face hardening. "Did you say... headshave?"
The barberette, oblivious to the domestic drama unfolding, nodded cheerfully. "Yes, ma'am! He called a few hours ago to book a premium appointment for his headshave."
I didn’t know what to say. I felt like a thief caught red-handed, completely surrounded by the cops with absolutely no escape. I braced myself for a screaming match.
Instead, a slow, terrifying smile crept across Chloe’s face. She looked at the stylist and said, "Oh, wonderful. Yes, please, let's have his headshave. But please do it with a straight razor. We want a completely smooth shaved head—shiny and clean. Oh, and one more thing..." Chloe pointed to the very top of my skull. "Please leave a small, isolated tuft of hair right in the center of his crown, and shave the leftover portion completely smooth."
The barberette shrugged, accustomed to eccentric requests. "You got it." She invited us into the cutting station.
I walked over like a man marching to the gallows and sat in the heavy leather chair. Looking in the mirror, I stared at my thick hair, knowing it would be completely gone in a matter of minutes. Soon, I would be a completely bald guy. A smooth shaved head guy. But I couldn't comprehend why she wanted me to keep that ridiculous little patch of hair on top.
The barberette began the ritual. She started by spraying warm water over my head, massaging it deep into my scalp. Chloe sat in the waiting chair directly behind me, watching every single movement through the mirror. She didn’t look happy—her source of entertainment was being systematically destroyed—but I was secretly ecstatic. Finally, she won't be able to pull my hair anymore.
Next, the barberette took a premium shaving brush, loaded it with thick shaving gel, and began rubbing it in circular motions all over my head. Within moments, my entire head was buried under a mountain of white, dense shaving foam. Then, she reached into her drawer and drew a gleaming, wicked-looking straight razor. She expertly popped open the handle and loaded a brand-new, razor-sharp blade into it.
This is it, I thought, my heart hammering. I am finally getting my headshaved.
The stylist isolated the small tuft of hair at the center of my crown, holding it up, and began carefully executing the headshaving process around it. She shaved a precise boundary line around the tuft so that she could clear the rest of my head properly.
The sensation was unbelievable. I could feel the cold, sharp edge of the straight razor gliding directly against my skin, scraping away the foam and hair with a distinct, satisfying crunch. It felt amazing. After establishing the boundary, the barberette gently bent my head forward and began shaving from the top towards the front.
After just two long, deliberate strokes, a massive tuft of dark hair covered in shaving cream fell forward, landing with a soft thud on the cape.
Chloe instantly got up from her chair and walked over, hovering over my shoulder. She stared intently at the freshly exposed skin. "His scalp is completely visible," she whispered, almost in shock.
The barberette smiled. "Yes, ma'am. After completing his headshave, only his bare scalp will be visible. There will be no hair left at all."
With that, the straight razor went back to work. Stroke after stroke, more and more hair fell away from my head. Once the front portion was completely stripped bare, she moved to the back. Positioned behind me, she ran the razor in long, sweeping motions from the crown all the way down to the nape of my neck. The linoleum floor was rapidly becoming covered in shaving cream and a thick carpet of my discarded hair.
The barberette chuckled lightly as she wiped the blade. "Next time, sir, come in for a buzz cut first. Your hair is a bit too long for a direct straight razor shave, but we're making it work!"
In no time, she finished the back and expertly cleared both sides, shaving right around my ears. When she paused, I looked in the mirror. I was almost completely bald, save for that bizarre, lonely little tuft of hair right on top. My scalp was a bit red and not yet shining, but I felt an immense wave of relief.
The barberette sprayed some cool water, wiped away the residual foam, and massaged a soothing, mentholated lotion onto my skin. I couldn't stop myself from staring at my new bald head in the mirror. It was surreal.
We paid the barberette, tipped her generously for the strange request, and walked out toward the parking lot. Chloe hadn’t said a word, and her expression remained incredibly angry.
We got into the car, and I pulled out into the afternoon traffic, heading toward home. The car was silent until Chloe reached over. She began rubbing her hand across my smooth shaved head.
"Do you like your new headshave?" she asked softly.
"It feels... different," I admitted, adjusting the rearview mirror. "I've never had a smooth shaved head from a straight razor before."
Then, Chloe’s hand migrated to the very top of my head. She wrapped the little tuft of hair that had been left behind tightly around her finger. With a cruel, satisfied smirk, she slowly but firmly pulled it.
A sharp spike of pain shot through my skull. In a flash of horrific clarity, I finally understood why she had ordered the barberette to leave that little patch of hair.
"I can still play," she whispered, tugging it even harder.
The pain was blinding. Rage and exhaustion boiled over inside me. I slammed on the brakes, pulling the car abruptly to the curb.
"We are done," I said, my voice trembling with anger. "I cannot live like this. I literally went through a full headshaving session today just so I could stay with you without losing my mind, and you still found a way to torture me. We are done."
I shoved the car into park, stepped out, and stormed into a nearby convenience store. My head was buzzing with adrenaline. I marched to the shaving aisle, grabbed a pack of Gillette razors and a can of gel, and threw down my cash.
When I walked back to the car, Chloe was standing outside by the passenger door, tears welling in her eyes. She looked at me, completely defeated, and said, "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize how much it was hurting you. Please."
We both got back into the car, the tension heavy between us. I unwrapped the razor, cracked open the glove compartment mirror, and awkwardly tried to blindly shave off the stubborn little tuft of hair myself.
"Let me do it," Chloe pleaded softly, reaching out. "Please."
I hesitated, looking at her, and then handed over the razor. I leaned my head down, exposing my scalp so she could finish the job.
Chloe placed the razor against the base of the tuft at the top of my head and pulled it forward. In just a few quick, careful strokes, the final patch of hair fell away, landing softly on the white leather car seat.
I started to lift my head, but she gently held me in place. "Wait. The barberette didn't give you a perfectly smooth shaved head. There's still stubble. I'll do it right."
Without even using shaving cream, she meticulously began running the razor across my scalp, navigating the contours of my skull. Every few strokes, she tapped the razor against a napkin, showing me all the tiny, prickly hairs trapped in the blades. She ran it over the back and sides a few more times, ensuring absolute perfection. Because the seat covers were stark white, every single tiny hair falling from my head was vividly visible.
Once she completed the makeshift headshave, she gently ran her bare palm over the entirety of my scalp, checking for any remaining rough spots.
"There," Chloe whispered, her voice genuinely warm. "Now your head is completely smooth. I will apply some proper oil to it the second we get home."
I didn’t say anything. I shifted the car back into drive and merged onto the highway. As I drove, Chloe kept her hand resting on my smooth shaved head, lightly rubbing the bare skin in a soothing, rhythmic motion.
I leaned into the touch, a surprising sense of peace washing over me. It felt incredible. It was far, far better than hair pulling, and for the first time in months, I actually enjoyed her touch.
