The First Time by HeadBoy
It starts when you pull the Osters out of their package. They’re black. Heavy. Unfamiliar. It doesn’t matter that you’ve seen them before, or that as a kid they ran over your head more than a hundred times as you submitted to summer buzzcuts and parochial school hatchet jobs.
You’ve seen them before, felt them. Held them in your hand. But they were never your friend. They are now. Now, after years of running from them, as if they were some sort of demon to exorcise from your life. Tom Waits once asked, “If I exorcise my demons, will my angels leave me too?” That question hung in your mind for a while. Years even. It turns out the big, black, cold heavy clippers are your angel now: things have changed and you can’t exactly pinpoint when.
She looks up at you, draped in a San Diego Padres beach towel, one of the free giveaways you always find yourself getting every year. Her eyes are a pair of saucers, large and gleaming. The gleam could be tears of fright and expectation. She knows what’s coming, she knows what’s going to happen. She wants it to happen. She initiated this and asked for it to happen.
Her hair is dark, nearly mahogany in parts. At their roots, you’ll soon discover, it is onyx. A blackness that only an Italian girl like her could possess. Her lanky figure sits bolt upright, sitting stock still, waiting.
With a pop, the Osters come to life. The sound startles you and fills the apartment that the two of you call home. They bark out, then subdue themselves to a calm hum. You see the teeth vibrate back and forth. They audibly long to do their job, to reduce everything in their path to a manageable stubble. She looks up at you and wonders, aloud, what the delay is. You don’t know, you stare at the vibrating machine, knowing what you do next will take a long time to undo.
Some folks you know will not understand. They’ll think, at best, you’re a bit quirky or odd, at worst, you’re a sick individual bent on mutilation. You’ve never seen it that way, you fancy yourself a crusader, a guy with a fetish, a proclivity for short hair, and so is she. But no hair? None? A bald woman? What could be attractive about that? Your friends always ask when you say that you find it alluring. The arguments get heated, never nasty, but almost always end up with references to lesbianism from your pals, your pals who tell you that you’re ill and need help.
But you know you’re not ill, just different from the pack. Not that different, however. Through the years, you’ve met people who share your desires, share your affinity, share your lust.
It is an uneasy feeling as you aim the clippers at her hairline. Yes, it is a bit like a kid on Christmas morning, tearing into a package, not knowing what he’ll find. This is the first time you’ve done this, and it is a brave new world.
The Osters slide along her skull, easily ripping away hair in uniform lines. You can tell your hand is shaking, because the path you’ve just carved is uneven. Stubble sits up in odd angles, the amount of pressure, you discover, makes a huge difference in how short the stubble will be. She stares into the mirror in front of her in disbelief, this is her first time too.
She had no idea how it would look, only a vague feeling that Sinead O’Connor has a lovely face, one similar to her own. That and she has grown tired of the hours it takes to care for a head of hair. And a feeling, real or imagined, that this action will make her stronger, break bonds with the past, force her to see herself as something other than a sexual object. It may give her some sort of GI Jane toughness, or unexpected compassion she hadn’t felt before.
The second pass goes more smoothly: she has started, and stopped, shaking. You have too. You are getting used to the weight and feel of the clippers. The sound is a soothing one. Black fuzz appears where shoulder-length hair was a second before. It is gone now. Gone and done with. It sits on the beach towel, on her lap, on the floor. There will be plenty to clean up, that’s for certain. But you don’t care at this point. You’re a guy in his mid-twenties, she’s a girl, one year older than you and the two of you get along wonderfully. She has a playful side that is temporarily subdued during this metamorphosis. She looks straight forward as the left side of her head gets rid of hair. You started just left of center and worked down.
She asks you to stop for a second, she reaches up to rub the stubble and begins to cry a bit. She looks at herself in the mirror, seeing herself part way through the journey to the new her. The end of the trail will be a better place than the long road there. She says it feels like this is taking hours, when, in reality, only four minutes have passed.
You begin again, working around the ear, and she sees them stick out for the first time in her life. The look on her face changes. She is no longer crying. She is growing used to the idea of what is going on. She did, after all, beg you to do this. You didn’t need to be begged. You didn’t even hide your enthusiasm. You know your friends will look at you differently.
Talking about this is one thing, actually shaving a woman’s head is another. And here you are, mid-way through the act. It is a rush you’ve never felt before. It has nothing to do with power, like some people suggested. It has much more to do with the undiscovered process. The unknown. The lure of that which is a new experience.
A deal is a deal. She gets to shave you next. As part of the bargain, you have to remain bald for one year, no excuses. You’ll submit to her shaving your skull every other day for 12 months. You have no idea how you’ll look, or if this was a Faustian bargain. But, you wanted to know what it felt like to shave a woman, so you signed on the dotted line.
Will she keep her head clean too? Will she hate it and not speak to you again? Will she find it as indescribably alluring as you do? Will she be as turned on as you are right this second? You hope so. Even if she lets her hair grow back as soon as you’ve finished scraping away the last vestiges of shaving foam, you’ll have the memories of doing this. You’ll have the before and after photos of the two of you.
You feel her hands unzip your pants as you continue the deed at hand. You feel her grab your rock hard penis. You know what she’s doing, and you think you know why.
She is as turned on as you are.
She likes the feeling, now that she’s gotten over the initial shock.
She begins to lower her head toward your crotch… you continue clippering away the last bits of long hair. Her skull is wonderfully round, you can tell that even though she has stubble still defying your intentions.
You run the clippers over her head countless other times, faster than when she had a full head of hair. The stubble is reduced to an even, shadowy, outline of where here hair once was. She rubs it and giggles. You are in the throes of passion, and she is too. You feel her release her lips from around your unit. You have to stop for a moment to get your brain back in gear and your wits about you.
She spreads shaving cream all over her head. She moans, and her free hand shoves into her jeans, and you know why. She reaches orgasm quickly. Quicker than you thought possible.
As you begin shaving with the disposable razors, you notice how slow and methodical this is going to be. She actually smiles. She tells you to get ready, because you’re next. You had forgotten that for a moment. You keep shaving in short, authoritative, strokes. You wonder how you’ll look bald?
It doesn’t matter at the moment, because you realize that in mere minutes, she will be bald first. And it will be at your hands that this happened. As you place a hand on her progressively more naked scalp to shave away what remains, you notice how the scalp moves back and forth in your hand, and how the skull underneath does not.
Wow, what a rush. You explode with joy, and she grins. She knows what happened, and there is no shame in it; it is two people, very much in love, expressing their love for one another in a way that thrills and pleases them.
Her scalp is now totally nude. It is a thing of beauty. It shines. There are scant remnants of hair. You lather her up again, and shave away. She giggles. She bursts into a full-throated laugh. She rubs her head, and smiles. She lets out the words: “Oh, hell yes!” She rips open your shirt, sending the buttons scattering across the bathroom floor.
Her soft, touchable scalp rubs against your chest and you feel alive in ways you never have before. You feel a rush of blood to your head and to your crotch. You get dizzy with delight. You feel a gush throughout your body.
You take the scented oil she brought home and rub it into her scalp. It makes her dome glisten like a frozen lake. It renders you helpless to say no to her, for any reason.
She takes you into the bedroom and does things that you and your friends had only lied about to one another prior to this day. She has the face of a goddess. Her naked body stands before you, in its new and unique form. There is no longer any hair on her head; it lends her a statuesque quality. You see an uncertainty in her eyes that was not there before. She has no idea if the world will find her sexy, or freakish. She can tell by the look in your eyes that you find her more incredible than before. You find her a flawless thing. A vision of beauty you’d only imagined before, now one that you hold in your arms.
She pleases you in ways you never knew were possible.
She takes you into the bathroom and sits you down on the chair. The beach towel gets draped around your neck. You can’t wait to join her in her new-found bliss. You can’t wait to get rid of your head of hair.
You don’t know if you will miss it or not. You know you won’t miss hers. Pretty as it was, it is now a thing of the past. Much like yours will be in about five of the most anticipated minutes of your life.
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