headshave memories by sebastian

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The barber's chair creaked as I sat down, the worn leather cool against my back. The shop was unfamiliar place, filled with the comforting scents of aftershave and hair tonic, but today it felt alien, like a room from a forgotten nightmare. I watched as the barber lathered a fresh cake of shaving soap into a thick, white paste, the bristles of his brush flicking droplets of water into the air. He applied the mixture to my head with a gentle touch, the foam sticking to my hair like a clinging fog. With a sigh, I felt the weight of his hand on my shoulder, and the blade touched my skin. The scrape of metal on bone was softer than I remembered, almost tender in its rhythm. My eyes watered as the hair fell away, and with it, my childhood.

The sensation of the blade was a strange mix of fear and nostalgia. Each stroke brought back memories of sitting in this very chair, a squirming toddler clutching at the armrests as the barber tried to keep my head still. The sting of the nicks, the coldness of the shave, the vulnerability of having my head so exposed—it was all there, but somehow different. I felt a strange detachment from the scene unfolding in the mirror, as if watching a movie of someone else's life. The barber's movements grew more confident as he worked, and soon, the sound of the blade was the only thing that filled the room. The tension in my body began to ease, and I found myself leaning into the motions, almost enjoying the ritual.i closed my eyes, a old memory of my past head shave comes in my mind that took place when i was eleven.

It was the beginning of summer vacation. I got back home after my final exam.I got involved in the activity of arranging my books and other things in my room, and surprisingly, my mom came there. Seeing my uncombed messy hair, she made a comment:
"Your hair exceeded the limit, actually, I come here to inform you about my decision on your haircut, which you may find hard to accept, but you have no other choice now than to obey it," she said sternly, as something was on her mind. Her words filled me with a mix of dread and curiosity. I turned to face her, my heart racing a little.
"What decision, Mom?"
Mom took a deep breath, her eyes searching in my room as if avoiding direct contact. "As you know, it is your summer holidays, and you will be at home for a long period of time, so why can't you try a traditional head shave this time?" I felt a cold shiver run down my spine at the mention of a traditional head shave.i have n't experienced a head shave in my life since then.

i taught about the experience of cold blade gliding over my scalp, the sting of nicks, and the feeling of complete vulnerability was something I hadn't wanted to even think. But it was clear from her tone that she wasn't asking for my opinion. She was telling me what was going to happen.

"But Mom, I protested, my voice cracking slightly, "my friends are expecting me to look cool. They're all getting stylish haircuts. How can I show up with a shaved head?" Mom's expression softened a bit, but her resolve didn't waver.

"You're growing up, son. Sometimes, we have to do things we don't like, but it is for your goodness, it'll keep you cool in this heat." She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, her eyes reflecting a mix of nostalgia and determination. "It's just hair. It'll grow back." I couldn't argue with that logic, but the thought of losing my hair still didn't sit well with me. The anticipation of my friends' reactions loomed large in my mind.

"Okay," I mumbled, trying to sound more accepting than I felt. "Then go to the nearby local barber," she suggested, giving me a firm nudge towards the door. I changed the cloths and put a cap on my head to protect it from the sun. The barber shop was a small, dimly lit place with an old-fashioned barber chair and a mirror that had seen better days.

The barber was a middle-aged man with a thick mustache. When I reached there, I found the barber was speaking with a man who was running a shop nearby about some matter, and seeing me, the shopkeeper gave a knowing smile.

I took a seat on the worn bench outside, feeling the warmth of the sun on my neck and the coolness of the stone beneath me. After a few minutes, the barber finished his conversation and beckoned me in. I removed my cap and took a seat in the chair. He looked at me with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"What will it be today, young man?" he asked, his voice gruff yet friendly.

"My mom wants a traditional head shave," I replied, my voice a little shaky.

The barber looked at me with a knowing smile, and without waiting for my response, he started to cover me with a starched white cloth. The smell of talcum powder filled the air as he draped it around my neck and shoulders. He tucked the ends under the chair, securing it tightly. The coolness of the cloth was a stark contrast to the heat outside. With deft hands, he began to wet my hair, the water soaking into my skin. He lathered my head with a thick, creamy shaving foam that had a faint scent of sandalwood. The sensation of his rough fingers massaging my scalp was surprisingly comforting.

The first stroke of the blade was like a whisper against my skin. He started from the top of my forehead, moving in swift, short strokes towards the back of my neck. I watched in the mirror as my hair began to fall away, clumps of dark locks sticking to the foam and landing on the cloth. The barber's hand was steady, and the blade was moving in rhythmic patterns over my head.

The shop owner watched me in the mirror with a knowing smile, "You're doing great, don't worry," he said, as if reading my mind. His words of encouragement helped ease the tension that had been building up inside me. With each stroke, the coolness of the shave made me feel cleaner, more refreshed than any haircut ever had.

As the barber worked, I heard the chatter of the street outside, the honking of cars, and the distant laughter of children playing. The sounds of the world outside seemed muffled, as if the barber's shop was a sanctuary from the chaos. I closed my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me. The sting of the nicks was sharp but brief, each one a reminder that this was a rite of passage, a shedding of my childish ways.

The barber's hands grew more confident as the shave continued, and his gentle touch made me realize that this wasn't just about hair—it was about trust. Trust in a stranger's hands to perform an intimate act that would change my appearance, and by extension, a part of who I was. The silence between us grew comfortable, and I found myself relaxing into the chair, the tension in my shoulders melting away.

When he finally stepped back to examine his work, I opened my eyes and looked into the mirror. My reflection stared back, almost unrecognizable. The boy with the unruly hair was gone, replaced by a young man with a smooth, gleaming scalp. I felt a strange mix of pride and embarrassment, but the barber's nod of approval was all the reassurance I needed.

"It's done," he said, wiping the last bits of foam from my neck with a towel. "You look like a new person."

The sensation was oddly comforting. He then proceeded to apply after-shave lotion to my scalp, followed by a massage with a blend of coconut oil and mint oil. The coolness of the aftershave soothed my nerves, and the minty scent filled the air, giving me a sudden feeling of refreshment. The barber's strong hands worked the oil into my skin, his movements firm yet soothing. It was a stark contrast to the fear I'd felt earlier. Once the massage was over, the barber handed me a small handheld mirror so I could inspect his work. My heart sank as I stared at the reflection of my shaved head. It was so different from the look I'd been expecting.

I thanked the barber, paid him, and stepped out into the blinding sunlight. The heat on my bare scalp was intense, and I couldn't help but run my hand over it. The feeling was strange, yet oddly liberating. I wear the cap on it to hide, but everyone who comes across it can easily find out that I have a shaved head. Walking home, I couldn't help but feel self-conscious. Kids playing in the street looked up at me with curiosity, some pointing and whispering. I knew that the talk of my shaved head would soon spread through the neighbors.

As I entered the house, the coolness of the air conditioning washed over me, providing a brief respite from the heat outside. I took off the cap and headed straight to my room, not wanting to face my family just yet. In the mirror, I studied my new look, trying to find something, anything, that I liked about it. The door creaked open, and my mom peeked in. Her eyes widened when she saw my shaved head," she squealed before bursting into laughter. "You look like a baldy now!" Her laughter was infectious, and despite my initial apprehension, I couldn't help but crack a smile.

"Thanks, Mom," I said sarcastically. "Just what I needed to boost my confidence."

i come to reality to see my reflection of shaved head again in front of me after ten years. The barber, a new face in this familiar place, nodded with satisfaction as he wiped the last remnants of shaving cream from my neck. His eyes met mine in the mirror, and for a brief moment, I saw a hint of understanding in them—like he knew the gravity of the decision that had brought me here today. I felt a strange kinship with this man who had just transformed me in such a profound way.

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