Nothing to hide by BaldBearded

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Nothing to Hide
The Discovery
Ethan had always considered his hair untouchable.
It wasn’t just long—it was legendary. Chestnut waves to his waist, thick and glossy, the kind of hair strangers commented on in elevators. Every photo, every memory—Ethan with that hair.

But lately, there were signs.
Loose strands on the pillow. Wet coils in the drain. A glint at the crown under certain lights. At first, he ignored it—parting his hair differently, pulling it forward more. But in quiet moments, the truth crept in.

One morning after a shower, wrapped in a towel, he stood before the mirror. He parted his hair down the middle, bringing the long sections forward over his shoulders. The heavy curtain slid away from his crown, and his breath caught.

A pale, smooth circle, the size of a tea saucer, gleamed under the bathroom light. His fingers hovered, then brushed the exposed skin—warm, too soft, alien. He pulled the hair forward again, covering it, but the image stayed.

For the first time, he admitted the word to himself:
Bald.

The First Cut
Marty’s Barbershop smelled of talc and old leather. The bell above the door chimed as Ethan stepped inside, the sound too bright for what he was about to do.

"You know what you want?" Marty asked, settling the cape around him.

"I… want to keep as much length as possible," Ethan said, though the words felt like an evasion.

Marty stepped behind him, fingers combing through the chestnut waves. "If I leave it low, it’ll just draw the eye to that spot. Best is to cut above it."

Ethan swallowed. "Then… do it."

The comb slid through his hair in slow, steady passes. The sound was a faint whisper, but every tug felt heavy, final. Marty gathered the length section by section, smoothing it into a thick tail. His hands worked methodically, braiding it tight—three long strands weaving into a rope that tugged gently at Ethan’s scalp. The braid brushed his spine with each shift, heavy and alive.

When it was bound with an elastic at the nape, Marty let it hang for a moment, the weight pulling at the roots. "Ready?"

Ethan stared straight ahead. "No."

The scissors opened with a metallic sigh.
The first crunch was deep, traveling through the braid into Ethan’s chest. His stomach tightened.
Halfway through, the weight shifted—still attached, but barely. Marty adjusted his grip and cut again, the fibers straining before they gave way.
One last bite, and the weight left him completely.

It was instant—like losing a limb. The absence made his head feel strangely light, wrong. Marty laid the braid on the counter. Ethan’s eyes flicked to it, glossy and coiled, before darting away.

Without the braid, the truth was unavoidable. The cut Marty had given him left a boxed flattop in deep recession—and right down the middle, from forehead to crown, a strip of bare scalp leading into the bald spot at the back. It looked deliberate, as if someone had mowed a path through a field, and the shop lights caught it from every angle.

The clippers came next, their hum low and intimate. The first pass up the back of his head sent a shiver racing up his spine. The pitch changed when the blades met bare skin—hollow, unimpeded. Each sweep neatened the sides but also made the central strip stand out even more.

Warm shaving cream followed, menthol sharp in his nose. The razor whispered over skin, removing the last traces of cover. The cool air that replaced it was shocking—too fresh, too open.

When the chair turned toward the mirror, a stranger stared back: boxed flattop, the wide, central strip cutting straight through the middle to the crown. Ethan’s throat tightened. His hand rose to touch the slick sides, but he stopped short. He wasn’t ready to feel it.

The Days After
The first day back at work, Ethan felt the change before anyone said a word.
Conversations in the break room paused when he stepped in. Mugs hovered halfway to mouths. A chair scraped faintly as someone shifted to get a better look.

"Wow. That’s… a change," one coworker said finally, the smile polite but tight.
Another let his gaze linger a little too long. "That’s… bold," he muttered.

Ethan adjusted his stance, angling his head so the crown faced the wall. The air-conditioning stirred the short hairs along the sides, reminding him that the strip down the middle wasn’t just visible—it was bare.

Walking past the glass wall of the conference room, he caught his reflection. The ceiling lights caught the pale strip perfectly, a clean line of scalp flanked by clipped walls of hair. From that angle, it looked almost painted on. He quickened his pace.

At lunch with friends, the choreography was the same.
"New look?" one asked, eyebrows raised.
Ethan shrugged. "Something like that."
The smile he got back was quick and practiced.

Over the next week, the double-takes got faster, less obvious—but still there. He noticed coworkers standing just a little farther away. Passing conversations felt brisker.

In the grocery store, a teenage boy stared openly as they passed, smirking before turning away.
In a coffee shop, two women in line ahead leaned toward each other, their voices dropping.

By the third week, people stopped reacting at all. No upward glances, no pause before speaking. It had faded into the background for them. But for Ethan, every mirror, every shop window, still brought it into sharp relief.

Between Cuts
He didn’t keep it up.
The smooth sides gave way to patchy stubble, then to uneven tufts. The flattop’s crisp edges blurred. The front recession became obvious—two blunt arcs framing the narrow strip that still clung to the center.

Hats became more common, though indoors they felt like a weak disguise. Eventually, avoiding the barbershop felt pointless.

The Decision
When he returned, Marty glanced up from sweeping and took in the patchy top.

"All of it," Ethan said.

"Beard too?"

"No. Just the head. Smooth."

The clippers hummed to life, and Marty began at the front. The blades slid over the top with almost no resistance, the last tufts falling in soft spirals to the cape. The sides followed, sweeping away every uneven patch until only bare scalp remained beneath the foam.

The shaving cream was cool at first, then softened into warmth as Marty spread it evenly over his scalp. The razor glided in long, deliberate arcs—temple to crown, crown to nape—until the surface was glassy and unbroken.

Marty pressed a hot towel to his head, the heat sinking into his skin, loosening the last of the tension from his shoulders.

When the towel came away and Marty spun the chair toward the mirror, Ethan didn’t angle himself to hide anything.
He leaned forward slightly, letting the bright overhead lights spill directly across his scalp. It gleamed evenly now, no strip, no awkward edges—just a smooth dome framed by the strong lines of his beard.

The next day at work, the air felt different. A coworker smiled without hesitation.
"You look… sharp," they said.
Another clapped him on the shoulder. "That actually suits you."

At lunch, friends didn’t ask about the change. They just talked, laughed, and looked him straight in the eye.

Later, passing the glass wall of the conference room, Ethan caught his reflection. This time, he didn’t look away. He slowed his pace, squared his shoulders, and let the light hit full on.

For the first time, there was no reflex to cover, to angle, to hide.

Nothing to hide.

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