Traveller

Traveller

The Traveller – Bald and Proud

Two years ago when life had changed considerably for me, I was about to embark upon a wonderful new adventure. No longer did I have to worry about husband or children. All had grown and departed, either via the courts, in the case of husband, or via marriage, in the case of the children. At 51 I was as free as a bird and I knew what I wanted to do.

I bought a new car, rented out the house on a one-year lease and headed out without a map, without anything save a few clothes, necessities and a bank card. My investments and alimony would be enough to tide me over.

My friends and work colleagues were aghast. “You’re doing what?” they would invariably ask. I said, “I am going off for a year and I shall see you all when I return. As I will be on e-mail, it is not like I am really out of touch.” With that, I closed the office door at the real-estate company I worked for and walked out of the office.

My first day I spent in getting to know the new automobile. I drove around town for a while, loaded my possessions, and on Thursday night headed for the city gates. I passed the Seattle tower, drove south and headed out onto the highway. As It got dark I pulled into a motel, registered and wandered into the allotted room. I stood looking at myself. Pallor from the north-west lack of sunshine, messy brown mid-back hair, but on the whole not bad for an over 50. I carried no extra weight, so looked less than my age.

Next morning, on a whim, I decided to head inland, over the mountains and see what lay beyond. The wall of the coastal range looked formidable and I decided that as it was September, a map might be in order in case I ran into inclement weather. Next to the mini-mart was a hairdresser’s. Not a sparkling looking place, and reasonably empty. I fingered my brown hair and decided it had to go. I marched in and sat in a chair to wait my turn.

A young girl was being taken care of by the stylist. Her mother hovering about giving pointers and tips. The hair was snaking down her back and I looked up from my magazine as I heard a whirr. The mother was indicating where she wanted the girl’s head clipped, above the ears and up the back of the neck. The hair was being shaved off as the young lass sat uncomplaining. In a few minutes the clippers stopped and I could see a neat little bob with the nape and ears buzzed. It looked sensational.

As this was on a very young girl, maybe 12 years old, I surmised that wasn’t the style for me. I needed something more mature and a lot longer. My gaze shifted again when the mother sat down and said, “Do what she wants, I’ve had enough.” Now the picture became clear. Mother wanted the long hair, the daughter didn’t. The stylist and the girl chatted for a minute and out came the clippers again. The Mother sat next to me and whispered, “I loved her hair, but she wants it off, what can I do?” I just looked at her and smiled and said I thought her daughter looked old enough to make up her own mind.

When the buzzing finished there was a very neat little short back and sides and a grinning 12-year-old. “WOW!” I exclaimed. “That looks fantastic!” The young girl smiled, she and her Mom paid and left the shop. Now it was my turn.

I sat in the chair and the stylist asked if I was new to the area. I told her that I was just passing through and just wanted to be neatened up a bit. We agreed that I would go up to just below shoulder length and she started snipping. I watched the hair fall and mingle with what was still left on the floor from the chair’s previous occupant. It wasn’t all that much, perhaps 5 inches, but I felt daring as though it was a lot more. For me it was a big step.

It only took about 20 minutes and I paid the stylist and left. I gathered my belongings, checked the map and headed out towards the mountains.

I drove for the next 3 days, finding my way into Utah and then into the western area of Colorado. There the Rockies loomed and their majesty was awe-inspiring. In a small town I stopped to eat in a restaurant, and once again noticed a salon right across the road. As I ate, I watched several haircuts in action from start to finish. “Why not,” I thought. “I can do anything I want now and no-one knows me here.” I quickly finished lunch and trotted across the street. I actually felt a very unfamiliar tingling within me, so I thought this must be some kind of pleasurable experience. Once again I sat in a chair and waited my turn.

I didn’t tell the stylist I had only had my hair cut 3 days earlier, it seemed irrelevant, so when my turn came I sat in the chair and asked for a chin-length bob. The woman gently washed my hair and then began cutting it wet. It was something I had never had done before, and it seemed quite different. The sound of the scissors was different, more pronounced. All at once I realized the sound of hair being cut was quite a lovely sound, and the feeling a lovely sensation.

Thus coiffed I departed the salon and couldn’t help looking at myself in the windows of the stores as I walked back to the car. I looked like a whole new woman. I giggled as I got in and checked myself in the rear view; damn but I looked terrific.

A week later found me heading towards Minneapolis after zigzagging through the mid-west. I loved the north and the chill in the air, but I was now feeling that stirring again. I knew now to hunt for a salon. I found several in the suburbs of the city and chose the quietest one. I like to be undisturbed to savor the moments. Thus far I had lost about 10 inches of hair.

When approached by the stylist I told her I wanted the bob shortened and buzzed at the nape, and she could go as short as she thought would still look alright. I had never had clippers used on me before and I jumped when she turned them on after scissoring the hair to an ear-lobe bob. She used the clippers over comb technique and then I felt them gently press against the nape of the neck as she ran them up from the hairline to just below the occipital bump. I couldn’t resist feeling the short hair. There was just a little fuzz. When she showed me the back in the mirror I nearly came out of the chair. Was that really me? I looked so amazing. Without all that fly-away hair flopping about I really looked great. I was so pleased I tipped her very well.

Back in the motel room I kept looking and touching and feeling the newly shorn area. It stirred something deep inside, and I knew that this feeling had to be stimulated by the hair being cut and the result of the cut. This in itself was a new adventure for me. Up until now, thrill came from at child’s “A” or a perfect meal. This whole trip was turning into a real self discovery.

As the weather was spectacular and the colors incredible, I decided to angle north into Canada. I crossed the border late one evening as the sun pinked the sky. I drove a very lonely stretch of road until I came to a large highway, and a sign pointing to various places. I chose Winnipeg. I liked the sound of the name and it had a vaguely tantalizing sound to it as it rolled off the tongue.

I pulled into a motel within a couple of hours drive of the city proper and stayed the night. I then explored the area, and next day drove into Winnipeg. The scenery so captivated me, the wide rushing rivers, the rolling farmland, the sweeping vista of the city as you approach on the highway, I knew I would stay and explore a while. For a week I roamed the city and environs north until I felt it time to move on. I was still obsessively feeling the fuzz at my nape, and as it had started to grow, the tingling that I so enjoyed became less and less pronounced. I realized then, that before I left Winnipeg I would have another haircut.

In the city there were many salons, but all very expensive. However, in the suburbs there were chain salons and I chose one of these unisex places for the next stage of my inner and outer transformation.

As it was Monday evening, it wasn’t too busy, just as I like it. There were four chairs and two stylist/barbers. They seemed to interplay depending upon the client. I watched as a woman had her hair set in an updo that was not exactly flattering, and then a young man, obviously a corporate type, have a trim. Then it was time for me. I sat in the chair and looked at myself in the mirror. The lobe-length bob still looked perfect, but I needed the change. The stylist draped the cape over me and asked what I wanted. I gulped and said I was sick of the bob. I wanted something short and easy to take care of. I was on the road and I wanted something “wash and go”. I then said I would leave it up to the stylist.

She sprayed water from a bottle on the hair and picked up what looked like pinking shears. She then proceeded to randomly thin out the hair leaving it all different lengths. So far, I had had it all one length, so this was yet another change. I watched the clumps thud and fall onto the plastic cape and thence to the floor. She was making it all quite short. I noticed my lobe-length bob rapidly disappearing.

She switched to the more familiar scissors and began combing and snipping. She came to the bangs and swept them away to mid-forehead length in a flash. With those gone I really saw what was happening. She had pixie cut the whole thing. Again it looked quite wonderful and I was very happy with the result. She asked if it was short enough and I agreed that it was. She asked if I liked it, and I told her I did. I went back to the motel and savoured the feel and the look. It was stunning. I decided that would be the style I would keep.

Three weeks later I found myself in a remarkable city. Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. It was November and the seas were roaring, the wind was roaring, the snow was flying and the old familiar urge was returning. I checked myself in the mirror. One of the stylists had told me short hair was harder to keep styled and needed more frequent trimming and cutting. She was right. The pixie was beginning to look a little shop-worn. One blustery afternoon I walked down and took a day trip on the Bluenose sailing ship. A beautiful vessel, an exact copy of the one that was sunk off the coast of Florida during a race in the early part of the century. It was one of the last cruises before the winter really settled in. I stepped off the ship onto the wharf, walked to where I had parked the car and drove to Signal Hill, a place of unmatched beauty for views of the area. I felt the wind tousle my hair and knew the time had come. I followed my instincts and drove to a regional mall. There was the ubiquitous gender-neutral salon. I entered and sat down. It was busier than I liked but it gave me a chance to really watch the stylists in action.

As my turn approached, I had fixed in my mind that this time I was going to have a really short cut. No chickening out, just suck up the courage and do it. As I walked to the chair I could feel my stomach begin to do flip-flops. The time had come. The stylist was a young woman of statuesque beauty and a little tiny shadow of hair that looked as though it were painted on. I couldn’t take my eyes off her head. When she asked what I wanted done today, I gasped, and said I wanted the same style that she had.

She looked at me and said, “Are you sure madam? This is a buzzed style.” I said I was sure and said I would leave the length up to her. Just five weeks earlier I had hair down to my mid-back. Now, here I was asking this woman to buzz my head. She turned and picked up the clippers, attached a guard and turned them on. Once again she asked if this was what I wanted, and I nodded.

She began at the left side, placing the clippers against the skin she roared them up to the top of the head. This she repeated several times, always overlapping with new hair. I could feel the tingle inside explode. The buzzing in the ears, the vibration on the head, it was so extremely pleasurable that I almost came out of that chair.

I watched entranced as she buzzed the hair off each side of my head, then she bent my head forward and the clippers roared up the back, hungrily munching the hair from my nape to the crown. When I put my head up, I could see the top was still the length of the pixie, but the sides were sheared away to eyebrow level. At this point she stopped and asked if I wanted the top buzzed or scissored. I asked what the difference was. She then showed me some pictures and I thought they all looked interesting, but the one I liked had a little length on the top and was tapered. She then put the clippers away and cut the top with scissors down to about an inch, applied a mousse and scrunched it. I looked at this from all angles and thought how nice it was, then I rubbed my had over the buzzed areas. It felt soft and slightly furry and I really loved that feel. I was extremely happy with this, my first real buzzing.

Once outside, I realized that this probably wasn’t the best haircut for someone in this climate, so I hopped into the car and headed south. My newly shorn head needed warmer weather. It took two and a half weeks of dipsy-doodling south through Canada and the eastern seaboard States to finally make it to Jacksonville where the weather was more conducive for the enthusiastic short hair wearer, which I had now become. There were some stares along the way, a woman with a shorn head, but nothing that made me uncomfortable. I managed to see some incredible sights. Montreal, Quebec has to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Toronto has their magnificent C.N. Tower and a city so engaging I could have stayed and lived there. Down I went through Niagara Falls and on through the mountains of West Virginia. Passing through Washington D.C. and seeing the monuments and the White House gave me a feeling of connectedness with the country. This was truly turning into a trip of surprises on a deep personal level.

Two weeks into Florida I found myself looking again in the mirror. There were plenty of super-shorties here so I wouldn’t stand out. There were women with buzz cuts and baldies and everything in between. For the first time I didn’t go into a salon. I walked into a barber’s shop and sat and waited my turn. The customers looked at me, and I just sat watching each of the barbers attend to their clients. When my turn came I was told that they didn’t cut women’s hair. I told them I wanted a horseshoe high and tight, a short one. The barber, a gentleman about my own age looked at me as though I was from Mars.

“You want a what, Ma’am?”

“A horseshoe high and tight,” I repeated.

“Fine,” was all he said. I sat in the chair and he draped the cape over me. I was in a pair of shorts, a tank top and a pair of ankle socks with joggers. I told him I liked it very short for work-outs. Only partly true. I had not really worked out much, ever, but it seemed like a rational reason to me, especially how I was dressed.

Out came the clippers and on went the guard. He sliced straight down the middle of my head, and I saw the hair fly off the top of my head leaving about a quarter of an inch length of hair. He did this two or three times until he came to the temples. Then he removed the guard and drove straight up from the ears. There was a white, totally denuded swath of scalp. It riveted me. He kept moving around until he came to behind the ear, then he switched to the other side and repeated the process. There was no blending, just the shaving. When he reached the back he pushed my head down and I felt the clippers chew off the two inches of hair that had grown back. He didn’t stop at the crown, he kept moving until he was level with the middle of the ears. He then asked did I want a bald landing strip or just a short one. I opted for the wide bald landing strip. I could feel the clippers move deftly across the top of the head, stopping just before the hairline of the forehead. The sensation was so erotic as to nearly catapult me out of the barber-chair. When I put my head up to look while he was fiddling with the clippers, I was startled to see this almost totally bald woman with a little fringe of hair standing up around the hairline. I looked unknown even to myself. The next thing the barber did was take a comb and ask me how short the horseshoe was to be. It was about a quarter inch at that time. I told him that was fine for length. He then lathered up the sides of my denuded head and began to shave all the areas where there was to be no hair. He was very careful and seemed to concentrate on his work. I hadn’t noticed, but there had grown quite and audience, all watching this woman have her head shaved. He asked if he should shave the landing strip too, and so I asked to see it. I couldn’t get a top view without the mirror being held properly. “WOW!” I exclaimed. “This is perfect, I love it.” I then told him to leave the landing strip as it was but make sure everything else was shaved to the skin. I even toyed with the idea of using a depilatory to take away the slight brunette shadow. I was truly one of the baldies now, even though I still technically had hair on my head.

Naturally that would do for a while and I let it grow out for three months. The little under an inch I had when I got the next urge would be easily taken care of. I knew it wasn’t being bald that was pleasurable. It was the act of being made bald, and the feeling as I ran my hands over it afterwards that did it. Bald was just the state one was in after the pleasurable experience. If people stared and commented, it didn’t bother me. I was proud of my shorn head.

I was in Mississippi and it was just into the new year, this year of 2000. I walked into a barbershop and asked for a shave. He looked at me and asked what on earth I wanted shaved. I said, “My head, what else?” He looked relieved, I don’t know quite what he was thinking of, but I just wanted to be made a baldie again. I used no wigs or anything else. I had gone in stages from very long to bald. It took me a total of five months, but I did it and I felt free. I sat in the chair and repeated my request. The barber caped me and brought out the clippers, removed the guard and began the exquisite process of shaving off all my hair. No high and tight this time. This was the “real thing”. I was to be one hundred percent bald. My feelings as the clippers stripped my head naked were intense and I knew I would have a remarkable orgasm when I got back to the motel and played with my head, touching and feeling it. Too quickly the clippers had done their job and the warm lather was applied. The barber scraped and scraped and ran his fingers over the skin to make sure there was nothing left. Finally he said “There you are ma’am, you are as bald as a baby’s bottom. Why’d you wanna do that?” I just shrugged and said, “I hate hair,” and left.

Now it is almost May. I have about an inch of hair and the old feelings are stirring. I have told no-one at home what I have been doing. This was something I did for me. I won’t be back to Seattle until September and next I want to try bald with bangs, or perhaps stripes. I love being able to play with the canvas of the hair on the head like an artist. I don’t do it myself. I like the feel and sound of the clippers being wielded by someone else.

All I can say is, this now 52-year-old is bald and having a ball getting that way. I would recommend it for anyone who needs a change.

True story by Bald and Proud

 

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