“Baldy, Wake Up!” – My Husband Used to Rouse Me Each Morning. Last Year, I Made a Bold Decision to Shave My Head When No Treatment Helped My Scalp and Hair Loss, Surprising My Family, Making My Mum Gasp, My Daughter Plead for a Hat at the School Meeting, and Even My Son Copy My New Look

Author Wanda MirandaReading 4 minViews 2

Oi, Baldy, wake up! Thats how my husband took to rousing me first thing in the morning.

Last year, I decided to do something Id never even considered before. For some time, Id noticed odd bumps all over my scalp, almost like a rash. My head itched like mad, and my hair started thinning rather worryingly.

Visits to both the dermatologist and the trichologist led nowhere. The doctor even discouraged me from taking any vitamins, insisting they were no help to anyone. Then, I chanced upon an article that claimed shaving your head can really strengthen the hair follicles. I hesitated for ages before taking the plunge. Even after my son told me hed be scared if I was bald, I went ahead with it anyway

I asked my husband to first go over my head with the clippers, then finish off with the razor. He fetched the clippers, but looked at me in total disbelief. But he did as I asked. Once it was done, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and was quite taken aback turns out Ive got a rather well-shaped head.

The biggest problem was the cold I felt going outside with my bare head. And as my hair started growing back, it would stick to the pillow terribly, which was surprisingly uncomfortable.

Once my husband had shaved me completely bald, he started waking me every morning with, Oi, Baldy, wake up! and honestly, it had me in fits of laughter. I was now easily the baldest member of the family. At first, the kids were baffled, but it wasnt long before my son decided to have a go at looking just like me.

My mum told me not to show my face until Id grown it back, saying she couldnt bear the sight. My daughter begged me not to go to the next parents’ evening at school without a hat, and my husband, with his usual dry wit, said that if I turned up there hatless, everyone would forget why theyd come, and that our daughters classmates would be envious she had such a stylish mum.

Oddly enough, once Id shaved it all off, the bumps vanished on their own. My daughter doesnt stop teasing me, half-joking she never knows what Ill do next. One day, I overheard her telling her brother she reckons Ill turn up with a tattoo on my bald head nextBut as the months rolled on, something remarkable happened: my hair grew back thicker and glossier than before, and, more importantly, so did my confidence. I didnt hide beneath hats anymore. I realized that facing the worldbumps, baldness, and allhad made me bolder than Id ever been with a full head of hair.

Now, every time my husband calls out Oi, Baldy! in the mornings, its no longer just a private joke, but a small badge of all the things wed weathered together. And when my daughter teases me, peering suspiciously at my latest regrown fringe, I wink and promise her that whatevers next, shell be the first to know.

Sometimes, when I catch my reflection, I still trace the phantom memory of those bumps, remembering the anxious woman who took a razor to her own rules. That woman is gone; in her place is someone a little braversomeone who knows that sometimes, you have to lose something to find yourself again.

Every Man for Himself “Mum, you can’t imagine what the property market’s like right now,” Max fretted, sifting nervously through a stack of printouts, sorting them into neat piles before fanning them out across the kitchen table. “Prices go up every week. If we don’t put down a deposit right now, someone else will snap up this flat.” Lydia slid a cup of cooling tea over to her son and sat down opposite. Floorplans, figures, and repayment charts flickered across the pages. A three-bedroom in a new build—Tim and Sophie would finally get their own rooms. “How much are you short?” “Eight hundred and twenty thousand,” Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know, it’s a lot. But Anya’s at her wits’ end, the kids are growing, and we’re still hopping between rentals…” Staring at her son, Lydia saw the same boy who used to bring her limp bouquets of dandelions. Thirty-two, two children, and the frown line between his brows was just as it had been in childhood, whenever he worried over unfinished homework. “I’ve got savings. It’s in the account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, promise. As soon as things settle, I’ll start putting money aside straight away.” She covered his hand with her own, roughened by years of constant cooking and cleaning. “Max, it’s for your kids. There’s no need to talk about repayment. Family matters more than money.” At the bank, Lydia filled in forms letter-perfect, thanks to thirty years as a bookkeeper. Eight hundred and twenty thousand—nearly all she’d set aside over recent years. For a rainy day, for the unknown, the ‘just in case.’ Max hugged her tightly at the cashier’s counter—ignoring the waiting queue. “You’re the best, you know that? I’ll never forget this.” Lydia patted his back. “Go on. Anya’s probably waiting.” …The first months after the move blurred into a carousel of cross-city journeys. Lydia turned up with bags from Tesco—chicken, buckwheat, butter, kids’ yogurts. Helped Anya put up curtains, assemble furniture, scrub construction dust from the windowsills. “Careful with the tools, Tim!” she’d call, hanging curtains and simultaneously explaining to her daughter-in-law the proper way to cook cabbage rolls. Anya nodded absently, scrolling through her phone. Max appeared each evening, exhausted from work, wolfed down his mum’s cooking, then disappeared into the bedroom. “Thanks, Mum,” he’d say fleetingly. “What would we do without you?” …Half a year later, a familiar number appeared on her screen. “Mum, listen… My mortgage payment and car repairs both landed this month. We’re short thirty-five thousand.” Lydia sent the money without extra questions. Young families struggle—everyone knows that. Adapting to new expenses, little kids, stressful jobs. It’s all right, they’ll get on their feet—repay her. Or maybe not. Did it really matter, when it came to your own children? The years slipped faster than water through her fingers. Tim turned seven and Lydia gave him the Lego set he’d begged for all year. Sophie twirled in a new pink dress—sequined just like a princess from the cartoons. “Gran, you’re the best!” Sophie clung around her neck—sweet with the smell of shampoo and sweets. Every weekend, Lydia took the grandkids—to her house, the theatre, the funfair, the ice rink. She bought ice creams, toys, books. Her shabby old coat was always bulging with sweets and wet wipes. Five years passed in this generous, self-inflicted servitude. Money for the mortgage—”Mum, things are tight this month.” Days off for sick grandkids— “Mum, we just can’t get away from work.” Groceries— “Mum, you’re going to the shop anyway, aren’t you?” Gratitude came less and less often… …That morning, she examined the water stains spreading across her kitchen ceiling. Rusty marks crawling through the plaster. She’d been flooded—and living there was now impossible. She rang her son. “Max, I need help with repairs. I’ve been flooded, don’t know when or if I’ll get money back…” “Mum,” her son cut her off, “You have to understand, I just have other priorities now. Kids’ clubs, their activities, Anya’s signed up for courses…” “I’m not asking for much. Just help finding a tradesman, or even…” “I really don’t have time for trivial stuff right now, Mum,” Max insisted, not listening. “Let’s talk about it later. I’ll call, yeah?” An engaged tone… Lydia put down her phone. A screensaver flickered—last year’s New Year photo: herself, Tim, Sophie, all smiling. The money he’d borrowed without a second thought. The weekends she’d given up for his children. The time, energy, love—all that was ‘in the past.’ Now—”other priorities.” A drop of water from the ceiling splashed on her hand. Cold… Next day, Anya called herself. Unusual, enough to set Lydia on edge before her daughter-in-law had even spoken. “Lydia, Max told me about your call,” Anya said, briskly. “You do realise everyone’s responsible for their own problems? We’ve got the flat to run, the mortgage to pay…” Lydia nearly laughed. The mortgage—she’d covered every third payment. The deposit—almost entirely her savings. “Of course, Anya,” she replied evenly. “Each to their own.” “Glad to hear it. Max was just worried you’d taken offence. You haven’t, have you?” “No. Not at all.” Engaged tone… Lydia stared at her phone for a long time as if it were some strange insect. Then she walked to the window, but turned away—nothing outside could comfort her. Her nights became endless hours where the ceiling pressed down, thoughts hovering endlessly. Lydia lay in the dark, sorting out the last five years like beads. She’d created this herself—raising her son to believe a mother was an inexhaustible resource. In the morning, Lydia rang the estate agent. “I’d like to list my cottage for sale. Six acres, just outside London, electricity sorted.” The holiday home she and her husband had built over twenty years. Apple trees she’d planted while pregnant with Max. The veranda where they’d spent so many summer evenings. A buyer turned up within a month. Lydia signed the paperwork, refusing to dwell on what she was selling. The money landed in her account, and she split it up methodically: repairs, a new savings account, a small reserve for emergencies. The builders arrived the following week. Lydia chose her own tiles, wallpaper, fixtures. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—not putting money aside for a rainy day, not worrying who’d need help next. Max didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia stayed silent too. He finally called when the renovations were finished. The new kitchen gleamed white, the windows no longer whistled, the pipes had stopped bleeding rust across the ceiling. “Mum, why haven’t you been over? Sophie was asking.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Living, Max. My own life.” She visited a week later. Brought books for the grandkids—good presents, but nothing extravagant. Sat two hours for tea, chatting about the weather and Tim’s schoolwork. Declined dinner. “Mum, could you watch the kids Saturday?” Max caught her in the hallway. “Anya and I…” “I can’t. I have plans.” Lydia saw his face fall. He didn’t understand—yet. Months slipped by, and understanding came slowly, painfully. Without his mother’s transfers, the mortgage chewed up a third of the family budget. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to leave the kids with. Lydia, meanwhile, opened a new high-interest savings account. Bought herself a new coat—good, warm, not on sale. Spent two weeks at a spa in Devon. Signed up for a Nordic walking class. She remembered how Anya’s parents always kept their distance—polite greetings at holidays, obligatory visits every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. And no complaints from their daughter. Perhaps they’d been right all along? Sporadic visits with the grandchildren became a formality. Lydia brought modest gifts, chatted about school and friends, left after a couple of hours, never stayed for dinner, never took the kids for the weekend. Once Tim asked, “Gran, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Gran’s busy these days, love.” The boy didn’t understand. But Max, standing in the doorway, seemed to finally be catching on. Lydia went back to her renovated flat, the air scented with fresh paint and new furniture. Brewed good tea, sat back in her comfy new chair, courtesy of the cottage sale. Guilt? It still crept in at night. Less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned the simplest truth: love does not mean self-sacrifice—especially when sacrifice goes unseen and unappreciated. She chose herself—for the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood.

My Son Spent Years Searching for the Right Woman to Marry—At 30, He Finally Found His Perfect Match in Alice. I Supported His Choice, but Now Their Marriage Is Falling Apart, and I’m Not Sure If I Made Things Worse by Urging Him to Leave Almost every day, I heard about how lovely and beautiful Alice was. My son was truly smitten with her, and I liked her too. He passionately told me and his friends about her wonderful qualities—she seemed to be the perfect woman for him, so he married her without hesitation. As a loving mum, I fully supported his choice. Planning a wedding can be a real challenge, but my friends were absolute stars. The bride’s parents were delightful, and we got on famously from the start. At first, everything was perfect, but over time, things began to change. Their marriage started falling apart, and arguments became more frequent. I knew it was only their first year of marriage and hoped things would improve, but I worried about them—I just wanted them to be happy together. One evening really shook me. Late at night, my son arrived at my door with his things, saying he had nowhere else to go because Alice had kicked him out. He spent a few days with me, and Alice never came round to try to work things out. This happened again and again. When my daughter-in-law told me she was pregnant, I decided it was time for a chat with them. I just wanted to offer some advice to help them avoid misunderstandings in the future. It only made things worse. Their arguments became even more frequent, and my son stayed over at my place more often. I could see he was struggling—he wasn’t the happy man he used to be; there was disappointment in his eyes. I couldn’t stand seeing my son so unhappy in his marriage. I suggested he think carefully about whether it was worth staying together. He could still be a wonderful father even if he lived apart. Soon after, he filed for divorce. Not long after, Alice came to me for help, asking me to persuade my son to withdraw the divorce papers—she didn’t want the family to fall apart. I’d already advised her more than once to focus on her marriage. Now I’m accused of interfering in their relationship. I don’t know if I did the right thing by urging my son to divorce. His wife doesn’t like me, and he’s grown more distant from me as well. But maybe they still love each other? Living apart feels wrong, but living together isn’t working out either.