Antique Store Smile and a Woman Named Caitlyn

The Smile and a Woman Named Caitlyn by Headboy

The sound of her boots clunking down the steps caught my attention. She was striking: olive skin, almond eyes, auburn hair, an amalgam of Italian, Asian, Irish and Mexican beauty all rolled into one. I had never been particularly fond of one type of woman over another, it always seemed that that would be limiting my options.

The combination of freckles and tanned skin, a glistening smile, and body that wasn’t too thin, but was not flabby either. It was apparent that she cared about her appearance. It was obvious that she had confidence. The way she came down the steps next to my apartment door, handbag thrown over her shoulder and a not-a-care-in-the-world look in her eyes, I knew I was done for.

I looked out my open door, hoping she’d notice me and introduce herself. “Time waits for no man,” I figured, and jumped up off the sofa to catch up to her.

“Hi,” I said, “Are you new to the building?”

“Yeah,” she said, with a sheepish grin and an Irish accent that clobbered whatever self-restraint I had left. “My paper sent me over here to cover the company MP3 for our technology section.” Her voice was all syrup, thick and sweet. Oh yeah, I was a goner.

“I’m Gio. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“My name’s Caitlyn, and it’s a pleasure,” she said, sticking out her hand for me to shake. It was soft, feminine and her perfume smelled like heaven on a good day.

I invited her in for something to drink, it was getting close to 100 degrees outside, and the sun wasn’t even overhead yet. “That’s very hospitable, thank you I think that would be delightful.”

Inside, Caitlyn’s legs folded under her body as she sat on my overstuffed chair. I handed her a Coke, she looked at it and smiled. “I suppose you all drink Coca Cola over here, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah. And we’re all surfers too,” I said, she smiled. The day turned into Caitlyn and I talking, she was going to be here for a few months covering technology for a magazine she worked for, I was just killing time until what ever came along. She said that America was an adventure, and she wanted to take back something as a memento; but not the typical plaster seagull tourists seem to love.

“It’s got to be something unique,” She said. Alcohol flowed, and Caitlyn’s crooked and perfect smile flashed often. “My furniture has not arrived from the store,” she said, in that accent that could have said “I just slaughtered a cow in your bathroom” and I would have still found her attractive.

“I would be less than a gracious host if I didn’t offer to sleep on the sofa and have you sleep in my bed,” I said.

She smiled. “The first part won’t be necessary,” she said, “but the second bit is grand, if you will join me… and I do hope you’ll join me.” It was an offer I wouldn’t pass up at gun point.

Her body had tone in places I didn’t know existed. She did things in simple, amazing ways that were too beautiful for words. By that, I mean the sex was passionate and engaged. When we finished, it was still early in the evening. Early enough to get cleaned up and head out for something to eat.

“Must you eat like a Viking?” she asked, smiling.

“A what?” I asked.

“A Norse man. You know, the horde-like marauders from the North of Europe. You have heard of Europe haven’t you? I heard your schools left a bit to be desired.”

“I’ve heard of Europe, it’s where my grandparents left during that World War II thing.”

“That World War II thing? As if it ruined the weekend?”

We spent the rest of the night, playfully mocking one another. It was like we’d known each other for years. We wandered through downtown, looking at all the little shops on the cobblestone streets. Most of them were antique shops, most of them were closed.

In the window of one of the few open stores, an old-fashioned set of manual clippers sat. The vision of Caitlyn’s scalp surrendering to these, just before I showed her what else I could do like a “Viking” ran through my head. I said earlier that it would be limiting to just prefer one type of woman, and that is true… bald women, of any type, are gorgeous.

The way their necks slowly curve up into their occipital bone. The smooth, round shape of their heads. The patch of skin right behind the ears that almost always has perfume wafting up from it. The way a shaved head can make a pair of eyes dance. The way it can turn a shy girl into a bold woman. There are so many reasons why the naked scalp on a female head is beautiful; and none of them have anything to do with de-feminisation. It can be the height of femininity on the right woman. It can unlock a personality that was being held back by the Marcia Brady locks that they’ve worn all their lives. On the right person, a bald head can be the erotic topping on an already perfect person.

Caitlyn looked at the hand-operated clippers in the window, her eyes fixated on them… “That’s the thing,” she said, pointing to them in the window. “That’s my souvenir. Come in now,” she said, walking at a quick pace into the shop.

“I don’t wish to sound forward,” Caitlyn said, “but would you use these on me?”

“Forward?” I said, wondering how much more forward we could be after getting carnal within three hours of knowing one another. “No problem. And it isn’t forward of you. It’s pretty damned fantastic.” I insisted on paying the shopkeeper, he had a kind face, a kind, old, face. He winked at us as we left, and encouraged me to “Open the door for the lady.” Which I did.

On the walk back to our apartment building, Caitlyn told me how she’d shaved her head back when she was 15. She loved Sinead O’Connor, and liked the way it upset her parents. “Now I’ve grown up,” she said, “and about all I’ve left from those days is my Doc Marten boots, and a scant memory of how wonderful it felt to rub lotion onto my head.” Her accent rolled off her tongue, “Would you…?”

The clippers worked well, and my hands hurt from the constant working of them. Grasp, release, grasp, release, the repetition was as soothing as it was tough on the palms. For an old pair of manual clippers, they worked perfectly. The prior owner had taken good care of them. I wondered if they’d ever used them on a woman as beautiful as Caitlyn. I wondered where they had been, but that is a story for another day. Caitlyn’s moan brought me back to the moment, a moment I’d thought of many times, but except for my old room-mate, Celia, I’d never shaved a woman’s head. And with Celia it was part of a protest against the objectification of women. I was never quite so political. I just enjoyed shaving a female skull, even if it was a platonic, lesbian, roommate’s skull.

Caitlyn had me stop periodically to snap pictures of the event in progress. That was fine with me, it let my hands rest, and it let me take a moment to see the hair shearing off her head like a peel coming off an orange. Broad strips of her rusty auburn hair fell onto her lap, then to my kitchen floor. We put a full length mirror in front of her so she could observe the action. And observe she did; the clippers were quiet, almost totally silent. They made only a slight “shushing” noise as they did the foundation work for the ecstasy that was to come later this evening. Her hand crept up toward her scalp, cheating on the feeling a bit early. Rubbing and moaning, moaning and rubbing. Another patch cleared just above her left ear, she smirked, thrilled and anxious. I felt anxious too. Time passed too quickly. The camera flashed, the hand-operated clippers peeled away layer after layer of lovely rust-colored hair, revealing a stubbled goddess. She took my hand in hers and rubbed the fuzz that still covered her head. Loose strands of hair clung to her clothes. She played with them, twisting them around her fingers, then letting them unwind and fall to the floor.

“I can’t wait until it’s all gone,” she said. “Then it’s your turn.” It hadn’t dawned on me that I would have a turn too. I was never that interested in how I would look bald. It just wasn’t something I had ever spent much time thinking about. I’d find out now. The tone in her voice told me that resistance would be futile.

I snapped some more pictures of Caitlyn’s buzzed skull, then a few later on of her with the hot towel wrapped around her head like a turban. The shaving cream spread over her unblemished skull, and the razor worked its magic. Her head shined, a few shades lighter than the rest of her tanned body. “Again,” she said, nearly pleading. “Get it as smooth as you can.” Her scalp was already barren, but I was enjoying this; and, clearly, so was Caitlyn. Her scalp was as tight as a helium-filled balloon; smooth, delicate, and oh, so alluring. The razor glided over her sultry head easily, much more fluidly than before. She moaned, with her purr becoming a mantra. A mantra that rocked me to my soul.

Caitlyn looked more lovely than any woman had a right to. She smiled and said, “welcome back” to herself. My heart raced as she kissed me and dusted off the chair.

“We’ve got three months together, maybe longer.” Her voice lowered to a purr. “If we shave every morning, and make passionate lust every night; I’ll not have time to get homesick.”

 

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