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So the question on everyone’s lips was: Why? Why me, of all people? The biggest loser in the workplace! Was this girl some fruitcake with a soft spot for hard luck cases? I knew that’s what people were saying behind their hands. Maybe there was a grain of truth – she did empathise with, as she put it, `innocent victims of the modern age’, but Tracey Whitehead was no fruitcake. She’d been let down a few times by exploiters of her own good nature, and, I guess, fancied a change. But why ask me? “Well, if I’d waited for you I’d be menopausal by now!” had been her reply. They do say there is someone for everyone on this earth, you just have to find them. Only here she had found me, must have liked what she saw, and simply set herself on a mission to clean me up, put me right and wasn’t I the luckiest guy in the world? Oh, did I mention the fact she was slim, attractive, with long blonde hair?

Maybe I’m dreaming.


It wasn’t meant to be this way though, not tonight. A quiet night in, bottle of wine, followed by a few glasses of Scotch. Maybe she’d been knocking them back faster than I realised. I forget sometimes that she’s only five feet tall, maybe that has something to do with it. Or possibly she hadn’t been well beforehand, but whatever the reason Tracey was now lying prostrate at my feet, made unconscious by alcohol.

This had never happened before. To her, anyway. I mean, to me that used to be the only way of approaching sleep, but she had never passed out before. But even face down and out for the count she looked gorgeous. Those tiny feet, and long, slender, immaculately waxed legs. The skimpy little pants, pulled down slightly to reveal an inviting fleshy peach. Her classic hourglass figure and most of all, her long, fine and almost impossibly white mane, shimmering wistfully over her back and outstretched left arm.

I have to say, I adore her hair. It was the first thing I’d noticed about her, albeit too timid to say anything. Before we left she had it in big, rather comical oversized rollers, which surprised me – I thought only old ladies wore them. But she knew what she was doing. Removing them, then parting her still straight hair firmly in the centre, left the silky tresses curling tantalisingly inwards as they caressed her shoulders and framed her tanned face like a picture. “Was it OK?” she enquired. Silly question. But that wasn’t actually the whole story.

Much as though I worshipped her long locks, I have to admit to a little secret. One which I have never really been able to admit it anyone, not even my newly discovered friends. They may think me a little odd, you see, and I’m not odd any more. But for a while there has been a hidden image which I hold in my head, one which cannot help but persist. It is this: For some reason, I am strangely drawn to the idea of women with very short hair; number one crop, not unlike my own. You see them in magazines, models usually, not quite so much on the street. Why am I so drawn? I don’t really know, the idea of crew cut girls just naturally appeals, I guess, and on the rare occasions that I spotted one I always felt something of a stirring – even if, as I imagine, a few of them were gay. But that would not be for Tracey – that would exceed all expectations. That would be asking too much, the impossible convergence of happy events that if it does happen in real life does so only once, and I’d used that one up in meeting her in the first place. She’s so proud of her tresses, anyway – “blonde bombshell with hair to die for”, the expression used more than once, not least by herself. And yet this mental picture of my new girlfriend, shorn to within an inch of her scalp, simply refused to leave my head. I’d even jokingly mentioned it once. Of course she just laughed; it never even appeared like jest to her, just something too inconceivable to even consider . So my little fetish had been well and truly given a back seat, never to see the light of day.

Until, possibly, now.

But no, it really wasn’t meant to be like this. I had hoped, over a period of weeks, to convince her by powers of persuasion, to make her realise how I felt, how much it would mean to me to give her a number one. I was going to show her my collection of magazine photos (only four so far but I’m still on the lookout), showing beautiful models with their hair “buzzed”, I believe is the expression. Somehow I never got round to it, somehow the time was never right. Just never…right. But this could be. Could it?

Was she still breathing? The barely perceptible undulations of her breasts confirmed that she was. I called her name. Louder. Shouted it… nothing. I grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to pull her towards me. Aren’t comatose people heavy? She just slumped back into – fortunately I assume – the recovery position. In reality, Tracey was oblivious to the whole wide world.

Suddenly, a feeling of excitement and sheer terror engulfed me. I’d had a few beers myself, mind, and it was 3 a.m., but I just couldn’t shake off the momentum. The excitement at what I was about to do, and the terror of being found out, was the most powerful driving force I think I had ever experienced. I was going to give Tracey and myself matching haircuts. Mine was already stubble. Hers was a two feet long at the back; very soon it would be within a hair’s breadth of her scalp. I went over to the bedroom and grabbed the clippers.

Am I doing the right thing? Oh, fuck off, Conscience. Of course I am. When something feels this damn good, it can’t help but be right. Plug the clippers in. Shit! I’ll need an extension lead. Why could she not have fallen down near a socket? Fumbling underneath the stairs – no luck there, must tidy that mess up one day. I’d turned half the bedroom over before realising the thing was in the garage, linked up to the washing machine, wasn’t it. It took a full ten minutes to clamber over all the assorted detritus, retrieve the vital piece of equipment and sort out the connections but nothing could have stood in the way now. At the last moment I decided to dispense with a guard; this one’s going down to the bone! At a flick of a switch the clippers hard clicked into life.

It was good that Tracey was lying face down, as it made my job easier and lessened the chances of her waking up. Hell, what if she did? Just came to with the job half done – how would I explain that? In actual fact she had started snoring now; she wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. I lifted up her soft hair and placed the whirring blades at her inviting, vulnerable nape; laying them gently on to her skin then bringing them slowly, carefully, all the way up to the crown of her head. At a casual glance her blonde hair seemed quite thick, but in actual fact it was as fine as silk. It still shimmered, silky-smooth in the half-light. Apart, that is, from the motorway that had been carved out at the back, right up the middle.

Another slow swish up the back, and another. The downy stuff fell away, long, smooth, snow-white wavy tendrils that may have adorned her lovely head for up to four years, now with nowhere to go but the kitchen floor. She had a lot more hair than I had ever realised; there seemed to be enough already to stuff a large pillow. But the job was far from over. From the back, where once the tresses had cascaded over her shoulder blades, there was nothing save a large expanse of roughly-mown stubble. I lifted up the hair that had covered her ears and plunged the buzzing clippers into the luxuriant mass. It gave up without a fight. It was even finer at the temples – it felt like I almost could have pulled it out, but of course I would never do that. It took just one more minute to despatch the other side, leaving the best till last – the top.

I remember watching her for ages, eight hours ago, as she endeavoured to get that centre part just right. Apparently it’s difficult to stop it zig-zagging when your hair’s thin, but she had made it eventually – pencil straight as she had swept the hairbrush hard down one side, then the other. Not much cal
l for the hairbrush any more. That immaculate parting guided the Remington right down the middle. The blades struggled a bit in fact. Had the stuff been more bushy they might not have made it – but I enjoyed the resistance; made it seem more worthwhile. The journey from forehead to crown was finally over, with the parting now having grown to an inch wide. But not for much longer. When electric blades alternate at 4,000 times a second they don’t hang around.

And that should have been it. I gathered up the masses of hair that covered the floor and put them in a plastic bag, for want of anywhere better. I surveyed my handiwork. This should have been one proud, chest-bursting super-thrill of an experience, but it wasn’t. Straight away I realised why; the job had not been well done. The head was shaven but not smooth; small tufts seemed to be sprouting everywhere and some patches were bare. How had I missed that? I’d expected the turn on of a lifetime, but in reality Tracey’s makeover looked awful.

There was only one thing for it. I’d have to shave her dome myself – it just wouldn’t be fair to leave her in this scruffy state. I grabbed the Mach 3 razor and the shaving foam and set to work.

If someone had said to me yesterday: “Tomorrow you will be lathering up Tracey’s head in preparation for a total head shave”, I’d have laughed in their face. I’d have said there was more chance of finding Bin Laden in Safeway’s.

Now all of her hairline, after a quick dab of warm water (not cold, it might wake her up!), was covered in the luscious, creamy foam. I decided to start the shaving at the right temple, then cruising slowly down to the sideburn area. Again, down to the ear. The ultra-sharp triple blades made a soft crunching sound as they lifted every last scrap of stubble from the scalp.

Shaving another person is quite different from shaving yourself. There, you instinctively know when and where to stop and not press too hard. Now one had to be so careful, one nick and the whole effect would be ruined. But it was a brand new razor and fortunately I didn’t have to press too much as a white, gleaming cue-ball was being slowly revealed. Yes, white! I never realised before, how a blonde even looks blonde when shaved bare. And such a contrast to the rest of her, where she expertly maintained such a dark, even tan. Gently, I scraped off the last vestiges of hair from the top of her head back down to the temples. The foam was all used up. The reflected electric strip-light shone from her denuded crown. My Tracey was now completely and utterly bald. And still snoring away – not a care in the world.

If there is a more sensual feeling than stroking a woman’s totally shorn scalp, then I’d sure like to know what it is. Rubbing one’s fingers over an undeniably exposed area that by rights should not be there; over and over again, I had to undress, quick, before I lost control completely. Of course I couldn’t remain composed for long. A rush; a long, euphoric release, and her head was covered once again in thick, creamy liquid. Her skull glistened, iridescent in the artificial light as I massaged my warm, glutinous emissions into the girl’s soft, silky-smooth dome, in small circular motions over and over and over….

Still asleep. I couldn’t stop now. That was wonderful but I had to have more. Those expensively fashioned eyebrows, expertly curved and tapered and in complete symmetry, would have to go. Short work for the clippers; one zzzhip, two zzhip and just downy stuff framed Tracey’s eyes. Just two dabs of foam needed then; careful now with the razor, I don’t want to cut her face. And I didn’t; just gliding the platinum blades over where the brows had been was easy, and after rubbing off the foam, a new revelation. Now Tracey’s smooth white dome went right down to her eyes. What had been perfection, had now been surpassed. I had to come again; just couldn’t help myself. On and on and on. Warm, sticky massage balm for her impossibly large forehead; and plenty more where that came from. Finally I lay beside my softly glistening shiny-headed girlfriend, took her in my arms and fell into a delightful, dreamy, slumber.


I suppose I have always been a loser. I’ve always felt like one. Nevertheless so would you, had you been described by some geriatric in a curly wig as a “Vile, debased pervert who had visited a most gross act upon an innocent young woman, having first rendered her unconscious before cruelly dispossessing her of her crowning glory, and “A potential menace to young women who would do well to contemplate his future during the ensuing five years.”

But that wasn’t me. It couldn’t be. I’m the luckiest guy in the world, remember.

Or maybe I’m dreaming.

c BaldyPhil 2007

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