Lena’s Story

Lena's Story

Lena’s Story by NovoWriter ([email protected])

Once in a while a story comes along which is too good to pass up. You just have to write it. That’s why I feel compelled to tell Lena’s story, now that a year has passed since it happened.

I met Lena (she pronounces it “Layna”) on AOL about a year ago, while researching material for a novel. Lena, a freelance programmer by trade, was desperately trying to decide whether or not to let her husband shave her head. She had asked the opinions of a small number of people via E-mail, the better to remain anonymous since this was a traumatic decision for her.

As far as I could tell, she spent several weeks trying to sort through the advice she was getting. A few people told her to go for it, but most told her she’d regret it immediately. Lena wanted to please her husband, who was quite attentive to her and basically an all-around good guy. In fact, in Lena’s words, his only fault, if it could be called that, is that he had an admitted hair fetish – something Lena had known since before they were married.

Lena had gotten to the point where she was so distressed about the decision that she was about to forget the entire idea. It was then that she found a woman via E-mail who had been shaved by her lover, and who, over a couple of weeks, seems to have talked Lena into doing it. Thus, she decided to sacrifice her layered, auburn locks for the gratification of her husband.

What follows is my consolidation of Lena’s later messages to me, with some of my own comments thrown in. It starts after Lena had decided to let her husband do it, and describes the wind-up, the pitch, and the home run.

I made reservations at an Embassy Suites hotel on the outskirts of a city about 2 hours from where we live. I surprised Brian on Friday when he got home from a business trip that had taken him out of town all week, and told him we were going to spend the weekend away from home to concentrate on fulfilling his fantasy. Besides, if I were going to do this, I wanted my husband all to myself for at least three days. I’d already packed most of what we needed, including a “shaving kit” I had assembled for him and a blond wig. I was wearing a wig, the reddish-brown color of my hair, that I had bought on Thursday. It’s curly and short, but it looks very real. I don’t look like me in it, but it does look natural.

We drove up and checked in about 8:30 Friday night. We hadn’t eaten so we walked down the street to a fairly nice place and had dinner. The wine was especially rich and the flavor so vivid that I remember the taste clearly, even now as I write this. I guess all my senses were at their peak from an adrenaline rush. I drank more wine than usual because my heart was pounding like a drum. I was both excited and scared out of my wits. I couldn’t stop thinking that my Brian was going to remove all my hair sometime over the weekend. By the time we walked back to the hotel, it was about 10:00.

I went to the bathroom and when I came out, he was standing there with the scissors I had given him, with this boyish grin on his face saying something like “it’s time for a trim.” He had me strip down to nothing and sit on our balcony, that overlooked a freeway and office parks. The balcony itself was private, since it had solid walls on either side, but just the idea that someone could have looked up and seen me got me going too. In fact, I thought I was going to hyperventilate and pass out from my racing heart and my rapid breathing.

The balcony wasn’t very light, but it was enough for him to see by. He asked me if I were sure and I whispered yes. He still hesitated and I said something like “you better get started before I faint.” He gently pushed my head down and I could feel him grab for a piece of hair low on my neck. He just stood there holding it so I mustered all the voice I had left and told him to “cut it off!” Just like that, he did. And he kept on cutting in the back, mostly along my neckline and up to my ears on either side. When he had a handful of hair, he put it in an ice bucket that he’d set on the floor of the balcony. All the hair eventually ended up in there and I brought it home with me.

Brian started cutting up the back and I could feel the hair coming off and the wind blowing on the mostly empty spots on the back of my head. After he had cut it up a little past the crown, he worked on the left side above my ear, then the right side. At this point, I really only had a tuft of hair on top and in the front. He made me stand up and then sit down on his lap facing him with him in me – hard as a rock.

He tilted my head toward him and cut off the rest of my hair. Then he had me right there on the balcony, a towel was all there was between me and the hard, concrete floor. At this point, my hair was probably no longer than 1/2″ and pretty well chopped off. I asked him if he were ready to finish it and he said “later, I want you to experience it like this for a while.”

As a result, I went to bed looking like a refugee from a concentration camp. When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I thought I looked terrible and started to cry, but managed to hold it back while I climbed into bed. I went to sleep like that. He did me twice again that night. The last time, I woke up about 4:00 and he was mounting me. In spite of the fact that I thought I looked terrible, I got really turned on each time, and probably came twice for every time he did.

We got up about 9:00. It was cloudy and dark for daytime. Brian wouldn’t let me put my clothes on but made me sit down on a chair and pulled out the electric clippers. He started right down the middle of my head and “buzzed” me all over. When he was done, my hair was just a bunch of short bristles. He made me look in the mirror and I have to admit that I thought it looked better than the random chopping it had before. But it didn’t look like me! It was as though I were looking out from someone else’s head. He started playing with me and we did it again, although he was kinda running out if you know what I mean. I came over and over. I’ve never been so intensely turned on. As he was getting a shower, I sat looking in the mirror in the living room of the suite and I did myself.

He wanted to go out and for me to go with the buzz showing. I said I wouldn’t show it until we left the hotel, but I didn’t want to do it at all with my eyebrows as thick as they were because they didn’t fit with the almost-bald head. So he had me lay down and started to tweeze them, with some instructions from me. This went on about an hour and I was getting pretty sore so we stopped and ordered some lunch from room service. He wanted me to open the door without my wig. I did, my heart pounding again. A young girl, probably about 20, brought the lunch in. After she laid it out and he was signing the bill she turned to me and said – believe it or not – “I like your hair.” And I think she meant it!

After lunch, he tweezed for another hour or more. By now, my brows were getting pretty thin – maybe about 1/4 as thick as they had been – and thinner than they had ever been before by quite a bit. We decided to quit and drive to a mall that was close to the hotel.

I wore the wig out of the hotel. He kept wanting me to take it off so I finally did and threw it in the back seat. We went to the mall and walked around. I think everyone was staring at me. I kept telling myself that I didn’t know any of these people anyway, so what did it matter? But to be honest, one of the hardest things I’ve ever done was to make that walk from the car into the mall. We stayed about two hours and then went out and did it in the car, then drove back to the hotel. I put the wig back on to go into the hotel.

We just crashed in the room for a while, mostly petting and stuff because he was spent. He got me off once or twice though.

We went out to dinner and I wore the blond wig. When we got back, Brian pulled it off and took my clothes off and said it was time to finish me. This time he filled the bathtub and put me in it. He got my head all wet and put this ladies’ shaving gel I had bought all over it and then started shaving the hair, starting with the left side, then the right, then the back, and finally the top. He gelled it again and did it once more to make sure it was completely smooth. Then he made me run my hands all over it while I showered off with him in the tub with me – and in me again.

There I was, completely bald. And I was so turned on that I wanted him to do something else to me so I had him tweeze my brows again until they were just about one row of hairs thick. So now I’m not only bald but my brows are so thin that they also make me look like a completely different person.

A week passed and Lena wrote me again.

It’s hard to believe but it’s been a week since he took my hair. He shaved me again yesterday morning. To get my smoothness back, I needed it too. I may be getting a little used to being bald, but I don’t like the feeling of stubble on my head. I suppose that if I don’t get over that, I’ll never be able to stand growing it out again. I may try to go to shaving every two days instead of three. I hope that won’t make me sore.

The shaving has done something to me that I haven’t been quite able to understand. I work at home, so I am here by myself during the day. I usually get up and put on shorts, if it’s warm enough, and a simple top. This week, I’ve tended to sit around in my underwear, even when I’m working. I brought down one of those cheap make-up mirrors – that you get in those freebies they give you when you buy perfume – and set it next to my workstation so I could look at myself. Several times this week I’ve caught myself staring at it with my hand down in my panties. More than once I couldn’t stop and climaxed hard.

Now I’m no prude and once in a great while I like to get myself off when I’m alone, but it’s never been anything like this. It’s almost like I’m obsessed with myself – both how I look and how I don’t look like me. And it seems that I’m becoming overly concerned about having a smooth scalp.

I’ve also been tweezing my brows a couple times a day to make sure all the strays are gone, or are gone as soon as they reappear. I only have a single line of brow hairs left – and I’ve thought about removing those too, but I’ve resisted up to now.

I am glad I let Brian do it, but it has made me so – hot I guess – that I feel like I’m only barely on the edge of control. I have this urge to do something else to myself.

Lena wrote to me once more, a few weeks later, the only time she started the note “Dear NovoWriter.” Here’s most of the last message:

I spent the weekend getting some things ready for a big party we’re having this Saturday. I am still shaved – very regularly by Brian – and my eyebrows are now completely gone. Surprisingly, I am starting to get used to how I look without eyebrows, which is sort of “formless.” In a way, I feel like I am able to hide or become invisible within myself. I still pencil on thin brows when we go out, and I’m getting pretty good at it, so I can now do it quickly. At first it took me about 30 minutes to get them even.

The memories of how my own hair felt tickling down onto my back or shoulders is starting to fade. At first, if I concentrated, I could almost feel it, but I can’t seem to get that same feeling any more. Ever try to picture the face of someone you’ve known for years but couldn’t? It’s sort of like that. I like the feel of my smooth scalp – and I still don’t like the bristles. They make me feel dirty. I don’t know if I can ever get the will power to grow it out through the “whiskers” stage. If I can’t, I may never again have hair. That doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would before this was done to me.

I’m sitting here typing and rubbing my hands over my smooth head where my hair used to be and I still can’t believe it! I’m not sure who I’m becoming, but it isn’t the same Lena that was there before.

And, as they say, that was all she wrote.

You may be thinking that was quite a tale. And that Lena is quite a lady. It would, in fact, be a fine tale if it ended there, but you’re about to hear the rest of the story.

It was about eight months later, early spring. I was at a three-day, object-oriented programming conference in Boulder, Colorado with about 300 other people. The conference ended late in the afternoon of a Thursday, so I decided to stay over and take a noon flight home the next day. What I hadn’t counted on was that the handful of people that I wanted to spend some casual time with all decided to catch flights in the afternoon, leaving me to fend for myself that night.

I walked along the pedestrian mall near my hotel and saw an inviting pub – just crowded enough to be friendly without forcing you to drink standing-up, elbow-to-elbow with everybody around you. I picked out a table in the corner and ordered my usual martini, forgoing the beers that most everyone else in the place was kicking back. After two or three I remember leaning back, closing my eyes to get the conference goo out of my mind, when I heard this melodious, slightly-deeper-than-average female voice ask me, “You were at the conference, weren’t you?”

I froze for a moment, my eyes still shut. The last time this had happened, I had been in a bar in Atlantic City and the “Are you here for the convention?” question had come from a hooker.

Slowly, I opened one eye, ready to give the lady a quick brush off. What I saw brought the other open in an instant and, in spite of attempts to be cool, I must have shot straight up because she actually jumped back in reaction to my own, totally, un-cool start.

I recognized her from the conference, although I hadn’t seen her close-up. I hadn’t realized then how stunningly beautiful she was. She had moderately-short, curly, chestnut hair, and a lovely oval face with full red lips. She was wearing a short, somewhat low-cut, sleeveless, silver and black evening dress that sparkled when she moved. Her long, slender fingers with red nails to match her lips held an amaretto sour which she sipped, waiting for me to get it back together. The drink left a line of foam on her upper lip. She licked it off slowly with her tongue – a gesture which didn’t help to settle me at all.

She was one of the loveliest women I had ever seen. She was poised, intelligent, and obviously dressed expensively from head to toe – earrings, necklace, a real lady Rolex, what I’m sure was a diamond tennis bracelet and a matching anklet. The only thing that struck me as strange about her was the fact that her eyebrows were so thin and that they were drawn on with pencil, only barely concealing the fact that she had no actual hairs there.

Tired of waiting for me, I suppose, she asked if she could join me and sat down without waiting for an answer. We chatted about the conference for a few minutes. She extended an expensively-manicured hand and introduced herself as “Layna.” OK, OK, you may know what’s coming next but at that time I was tired and a bit fuzzy from the martinis. I introduced myself and mentioned that I had briefly corresponded with a Lena, who was a computer programmer, on AOL the previous summer.

Those unusual eyebrows raised a bit and as she looked at me her mouth dropped open and she said, “My, God, somehow I should have known. You’re the NovoWriter, aren’t you?”

“You’re really THE Lena?” I asked, astounded. “The E-mail you sent me last summer was some of the most exciting mail I’ve ever received.” I looked her over carefully then. Seeing my more attentive posture, she turned her head from side-to-side, modeling to me.

“So you decided to let it grow out,” I observed. The gentle curls were a bit over three inches long, about right for eight months of growth.

She smiled at me with a look of amused understanding. “No,” she said, “This is a wig. Underneath, I’m still shaved smooth. Let’s finish our drinks and go find dinner somewhere, I’m starved.”

As we were leaving the bar, she stopped in the ladies’ room. When she came out, about five minutes later, the wig was gone and her smooth, perfectly- shaped head was visible for all to see. She had removed the eyebrows too, and had applied heavier eye makeup to accentuate her eyes without them. She was gorgeous.

She placed her arm in mine, as the friends we were, and we went off to dinner. During the evening, I told Lena that I’d saved the notes she had sent me concerning her shaving. I said that I’d like to include them in a story sometime, if she didn’t mind. She mentioned that several others had received similar notes from her so she had no objections as long as I didn’t reveal who she really was. Since I still didn’t know, that was obviously no problem.

We walked back to the Boulderado Hotel, where we were both staying. In the lobby, she gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek, another beautiful smile, and we parted. In the morning, I tried to call her for breakfast, but she had checked out very early to get to the airport for an early flight home.

I never learned her last name or where she lived. However, based on some of the things she said, her accent (or lack of it, really), and the flights leaving Denver during the time she departed (yes, I did check), I think she may have been from Cincinnati. That would make the place of her shaving Columbus, or, perhaps, Lexington, Kentucky.

I’ve visited Cincinnati, a lovely city that too few people discover, and have wandered around it some. There are a string of beautiful, high rise apartments, like a necklace around the Queen City’s throat, that extend east of downtown, along the Ohio River. One of the buildings is particularly lovely. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when the first hint of dusk creeps up to my window, I think of a high balcony of that tower. I picture Lena standing on that balcony, looking far out across the Kentucky hills beyond the river. She is wearing a wisp of a dress. Although there is no hair to blow in the wind, the breeze somehow moves her, and I see her sway in tempo with it. The door behind her slides open, and a tall, handsome man emerges, placing his hands on her narrow waist from behind. They both look out at the twinkling lights that scatter to the horizon. In my mind I hear ‘Moon River’ play and I smile and go back to writing, knowing that somewhere, even if not in Cincinnati, Lena is out there.

End – If you liked the story, send me a note at [email protected]

 

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