“Baldie, Wake Up!” – My Husband Used to Wake Me Every Morning Last year, I decided to do something I’d never considered before. Some time ago, I started noticing that my scalp was covered in bumps, almost like a rash, my head was unbearably itchy, and my hair began to fall out. Visits to a dermatologist and trichologist proved fruitless. The doctor advised I not take vitamins, insisting they’d never helped anyone. Then I stumbled upon an article claiming that shaving one’s head completely was great for strengthening hair follicles. I deliberated for a long time before taking the plunge—even after my son said he’d be scared if I was bald. Despite this, I finally made up my mind… I asked my husband to first use clippers on my head, then a razor. He went for the clippers, still not quite believing I wanted this. Standing before the mirror afterwards, I was amazed to discover I had a perfectly shaped head. The main problem was, I felt cold going out with my head uncovered, and as my hair began to grow back, it stuck to my pillow—an oddly unpleasant sensation. After my husband shaved my head, he started rousing me every morning with, “Baldie, wake up!”—which never failed to make me laugh, as I now held the title of baldest in the family. My children were taken aback at first, but soon my son wanted to match my style. My mum asked me not to visit until my hair grew back, saying otherwise she couldn’t bear to see me. My daughter begged me not to go to parent-teacher meetings without a hat, and my husband wryly remarked that if I did, everyone would forget why they were there, and her classmates would envy her for having such a stylish mum. After shaving my head, the bumps disappeared on their own. My daughter keeps laughing at me, claiming she has no idea what to expect from me next. One day, I overheard her telling her brother she wouldn’t be surprised if I got a tattoo on my bald head.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 1

Baldy, wake up! thats how my husband took to rousing me out of bed in the mornings.

Last year, I decided to do something Id never even considered before. A while ago, I started noticing that my scalp looked like a hedgehogs playgroundlittle bumps popping up everywhere, itching like mad, and, to make matters worse, my hair began making a mass exodus.

After traipsing between dermatologists and trichologists, and hearing a suspiciously large amount of no idea, but good luck! advice, I wasnt any closer to a solution. The doctor even advised me against taking vitamins, because apparently they havent helped anyone shes ever met. One afternoon, while sipping my tea and flicking through a dubious health article, I read that shaving ones head bald could give your hair follicles a bit of stiff upper support. I mulled it over for weeks, long enough for my son to insist hed be terrified if I went proper bald. Of course, that only encouraged me to do it.

I told my husband to start with the clippers, then finish up with a razor. He obliged, though from his expression he obviously thought Id gone stark raving. When the deed was done, and I caught my reflection, I was genuinely surprisedturns out, I have a rather splendid-shaped head.

The next hurdle: it was absolutely freezing without hair. Then, as my hair began returning, it stuck to my pillow like Velcro, which was anything but glamorous.

Having gotten in on the joke, my husband started waking me every day with a cheery, Baldy, rise and shine!which set me off giggling, as I was now officially the baldest in our household. My children were gobsmacked at first, but then my son decided he rather fancied matching my new look.

My mother, typically dramatic, declared she wouldnt see me until my hair grew back, lest she faint at the sight. My daughter begged me not to attend school meetings without a hat. My husband, ever unflappable, said if I went to the school bareheaded, no one would remember what the meeting was even about, and that the other mums would be positively green with envy at my fashion-forward boldness.

On the bright side, the pesky bumps vanished soon after Id gone full chrome-dome. My daughter still teases me mercilessly, saying she never knows what antic Ill get up to next. I even overheard her whispering to her brother, convinced Id end up with a tattoo across my bald head one day. Wouldnt that give the parents at the school gates something to gossip about!

Every Man for Himself “Mum, you have no idea what the property market’s like right now,” Max fidgeted nervously with a pile of printouts, stacking them into a neat pile and then fanning them out again across the kitchen table, “Prices are going up every week. If we don’t put down a deposit now, someone else will snap up this flat.” Lydia slid a mug of cold tea towards her son and sat down opposite. Floorplans, numbers, repayment graphs flashed across the papers. A three-bedroom in a new build: a children’s room for Timothy and Sophie—finally, the children would have separate bedrooms. “How much are you short?” “Eight hundred and twenty thousand,” Max rubbed his brow. “I know it’s a lot. But Anya’s fretting, the kids are growing up, and we’re still living out of suitcases in rented places…” Lydia looked at her son and saw the same boy who used to bring her bouquets of dandelions. Thirty-two years old, father of two, and the same little frown line he’d get as a child whenever he worried over undone homework. “I do have some savings. They’re in my account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, I promise. As soon as things settle down, I’ll start saving up.” She laid her hand—hardened from years of cooking and cleaning—over his. “Max, it’s for your children—my grandchildren. Don’t be silly about paying me back. Family is more important than money.” At the bank, Lydia filled out the forms in her tidy hand, polished by three decades as an accountant. Eight hundred and twenty thousand—nearly everything she’d saved in recent years. For a rainy day, just in case, ‘you never know’. Max hugged her tightly at the counter, not caring about the queue. “You’re the best, you really are. I won’t forget this.” Lydia patted his back. “Go now. Anya’s probably waiting.” …The first months after the move blurred into a dizzying carousel of trips across town. Lydia would arrive with shopping bags from Sainsbury’s—chicken, buckwheat, oil, children’s yoghurts. She helped Anya hang curtains, unpack furniture, scrub construction dust from windowsills. “Timothy, careful with that screwdriver!” she’d call, hanging curtains and explaining to her daughter-in-law how to make cabbage rolls. Anya nodded, scrolling on her phone. Max would appear at night, exhausted from work, wolf down his mum’s food and disappear into the bedroom. “Thanks, Mum,” he’d call over his shoulder. “Don’t know what we’d do without you.” …Six months later, her son’s name flashed up on her mobile. “Mum, look, bit of an issue…the mortgage payment’s clashed with car repairs this month. We’re thirty-five thousand short.” Lydia transferred the money, asking no questions. It’s difficult for young families, she told herself. They’ll get back on their feet—maybe they’ll repay her, maybe not. Did it matter, for family? Years swept by, faster than water slipping through her fingers. Timothy turned seven, and Lydia gave him the Lego set he’d begged for all year. Sophie twirled in a shimmery pink princess dress. “Gran, you’re the best!” Sophie hugged her, smelling of children’s shampoo and sweets. Every weekend, Lydia would take the grandchildren—or whisk them off to the theatre, funfair, ice rink. She bought ice cream, toys, books. The pockets of her old coat always bulged with sweets and wipes. Five years passed like this—her generous, voluntary servitude. Mortgage help—“Mum, we’re broke this month.” Sick days with the kids—“Mum, we can’t get time off work.” Groceries—“Mum, you’re going shopping anyway.” Gratitude became rare… …That morning, she stared at the damp stains spreading across her kitchen ceiling. She’d been flooded; her flat was now unlivable. She called her son. “Max, I need help with some repairs. I’ve been flooded and don’t know when I’ll get paid back…” “Mum,” he cut her off, “you know my priorities are different right now. The kids’ clubs, activities, Anya’s on a course…” “I’m not asking much. Just to help find some tradesmen, or at least…” “I really don’t have time for this, Mum, especially not for things like that,” Max repeated, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Let’s talk about it later. Speak soon, yeah?” The dial tone… Lydia set her phone down. The display flashed with last year’s Christmas photo—her, Timothy, Sophie. All smiling. The money he’d taken without a second thought. The weekends she’d given to his children. All the time, energy, love—that was “then.” Now, it was “other priorities.” A cold drop from the ceiling landed on her hand. Next day, Anya called—rare enough to make Lydia wary. “Mrs Parker, Max told me about your conversation,” Anya sounded annoyed. “You do understand, everyone must sort out their own problems these days. We manage our mortgage on our own…” Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d covered every third month. The deposit, nearly all from her savings. “Of course, Ann,” Lydia replied evenly. “Everyone for themselves.” “Glad we agree. Max was worried you were upset—you aren’t, are you?” “No. Not at all.” The dial tone… Lydia stared at her phone as if it were some strange insect. She walked to the window, but looked away immediately—nothing outside could comfort her. Nights became endless hours when the ceiling pressed down and thoughts wouldn’t let her rest. Lydia lay awake, counting the last five years like rosary beads. She’d taught her son herself: Mum was an inexhaustible resource. In the morning, Lydia called the estate agent. “I’d like to list my country cottage for sale. Hampshire, six acres, with electricity.” The house she and her late husband had built over twenty years. Apple trees she planted whilst pregnant with Max. The veranda, where so many summer evenings were spent. A buyer was found within a month. Lydia signed the papers, refusing to dwell on what she was selling. The money landed, and she methodically allocated it: repairs to her flat, a new savings account, a small emergency fund. The builders moved in the next week. Lydia chose the tiles, wallpaper, fixtures herself. For the first time in decades, she spent on herself, not saving “for a rainy day,” not worrying who in the family would need help. Max didn’t call—two weeks, three, a month. Lydia kept her silence too. The first call came when the renovations were finished. A new kitchen gleamed, the windows sealed out the draught, pipes no longer reminded her of themselves with rust stains. “Mum, why haven’t you been over? Sophie’s been asking.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Life, Max. My own life.” She visited the next week. Brought the grandchildren books—good gifts, but not extravagant. Stayed two hours for tea, chatted about the weather and Timothy’s homework. Declined to stay for dinner. “Mum, could you watch the kids Saturday? Anya and I – ” “I can’t. I’ve plans.” Lydia saw his face fall. He did not understand. Not yet. Months passed, and understanding came—slow, painful. Without Mum’s help, the mortgage ate up a third of their budget. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to take the children. Meanwhile, Lydia opened a high-interest savings account. Bought herself a new winter coat—good, warm, not just a sale bargain. Spent two weeks at a spa. Joined a Nordic walking class. She remembered how Anya’s parents always kept their distance—polite cards at Christmas and dutiful visits, no money, no help, no sacrifice. And no complaints from Anya. Maybe they’d been right all along? Rare meetings with her grandchildren turned into formalities. Lydia arrived bearing modest gifts, talked about school and friends, left after a couple of hours—no overnights, no weekend stays. Once Timothy asked, “Gran, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Gran has things to do now, Tim.” The boy didn’t get it. But Max, standing in the doorway, seemed to start to. Lydia returned home to her newly renovated flat, smelling of fresh paint and new furniture. She brewed good tea, sat in a comfortable armchair—one she bought with her own money. Guilt? Yes, it washed over her some nights. But less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned a simple truth: love isn’t sacrifice—certainly not when the sacrifice goes unnoticed and unappreciated. She chose herself. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood…