“Baldy, Wake Up!” – My Husband’s Unique Way of Waking Me Up Each Morning After I Shaved My Head for Health Reasons Last year, I decided to do something I’d never considered before. Not long ago I began to notice painful red bumps across my scalp, almost like a rash, which itched terribly, and my hair started to fall out. Multiple trips to the dermatologist and trichologist made no difference. The doctor strongly discouraged me from taking vitamins, claiming they don’t help anyone. Eventually, I stumbled upon an article which said shaving your head completely can improve the strength of your hair follicles. I thought about it for a long while. Even after my son said he’d be frightened to see me bald, I decided to go through with it anyway… I asked my husband to first use the clippers over my head, then finish the job with a razor. He listened (albeit in disbelief) and fetched his shaving kit. When it was over and I finally stood in front of the mirror, I was amazed to discover that my head was perfectly shaped. The main problem was going out with a bare head in the cold — and, as my hair grew back, it would stick uncomfortably to my pillow at night. After my husband shaved my head, he started greeting me each morning with: “Baldy, wake up!” — which would make me burst out laughing, since I was now the baldest member of the family. My children were bewildered at first, but soon my son wanted to look just like me. My mum told me not to visit until my hair had grown back, saying she couldn’t bear to see me like that. My daughter begged me not to go to her school meeting without a hat, while my husband calmly suggested that if I did, everyone would forget why they were there and the other mums would envy his partner’s bold style. After shaving my head, the spots eventually disappeared on their own. My daughter can’t stop laughing at me, and says she never knows what I’ll do next. One day, I even overheard her telling her brother she reckons my next move will be getting a tattoo on my bald scalp.

Baldy, wake up!my husbands voice tumbled into my dream, pulling me from somewhere foggy and impossible.

Last year I decided to do something Id never once considered in all the evenings and winters of my life. For a few months, Id noticed strange bumps breaking out across my scalp, like some secret rash, and the itching was as relentless as English rain. My hair began its slow, pitiful retreat, falling out in clumps onto the bath mat, into my tea, trailing behind me like a strange memory.

Trips to various doctors proved fruitless. The dermatologist tutted at me, suggesting vitamins did no one any real good. The trichologist prescribed hope in careful pamphlets, but nothing settled the irritation. Then one night, somewhere between sleep and the blue wash of early dawn, I read an article suggesting that shaving ones head completely could revive every lazy hair follicle, make them soldiers again. I thought for ages, wandering the chilly corridors of my mind, before deciding to do it. My son said hed be frightened of me bald, but I still resolved to go through with itstrange as that felt.

I told my husband to start with the clippers, then finish the job with his razor. He fetched them, not entirely believing hed see it through. When it was all over, I stood before my reflection, my own skull gazing steadily back at me, marveling at the round perfection of my newly naked head.

The real trouble began with the cold: going out with my head uncovered felt like stepping barefoot into an English sea. And once my hair grew back in shy bristles, it clung to my pillow like dew to grassunsettling and rather surreal.

After the head-shaving ritual, my husband greeted my mornings with a cheerfully odd Baldy, wake up! and wed both collapse into wild laughter, since Id become the most spectacularly bald person in the family. At first, the children simply gawked; soon enough, my son declared he wanted to look just like me, which made the world feel knotted together in impossible ways.

Mum rang and warned me not to visit until my hair had returned or shed faint at the sight. My daughter begged for me to wear a woolly hat to her parent meeting at school, while my husband, ever dry as the London gin, remarked that if I went bare-headed, all the other parents would forget why theyd come, and my daughters classmates might even envy her for having such a daring, stylish mother.

After the shaving, the bumps simply faded away as if theyd only been drawn on in the night and washed off by morning. My daughter laughs whenever she looks at me now, claiming she never knows what Ill do next. The other evening, I overheard her whispering to her brother that she half-expected me to get a tattoo on my sparkling bald head.

The whole thing felt like drifting through a village fête where the scones rolled uphill and everyone wore hats made from clouds: nothing made sense, but everything seemed possible.