“Baldy, Wake Up!” – How My Husband Became My Morning Alarm and the Surprising Story Behind My Shaved Head Last year, I decided to do something I’d never thought of before. Not long ago, I started noticing itchy bumps all over my scalp—they looked like a rash, my head was constantly itchy, and my hair began falling out. Visits to the dermatologist and trichologist were fruitless. The doctor even advised against vitamins, believing they wouldn’t help anyone. Then I read an article claiming that shaving your head smooth can dramatically strengthen hair follicles. I hesitated for a long time before taking the plunge. Even when my son said he’d be scared of bald me, I still went through with it… I told my husband to first trim my hair with clippers, then use a razor to shave it all off. He got the clippers, though he didn’t really believe I’d go through with it. Once it was done, I looked in the mirror and was amazed—I had a perfectly shaped head. The main problem was the cold; going out with a bare scalp was freezing. And as my hair began to grow back, it stuck to the pillow in the most uncomfortable way. After my husband shaved my head, he started waking me up every morning with, “Baldy, wake up!”—which cracked me up, since I had become the baldest person in the family. At first, my kids were surprised, but then my son decided he’d like to match me. My mum told me not to visit her until my hair grew back, as she couldn’t bear the sight. My daughter begged me not to go to her school meeting without a hat, and my husband nonchalantly said that if I did, people would forget why they were there, and her classmates would envy her stylish mum. After shaving, the bumps disappeared on their own. My daughter still laughs and says she never knows what I’ll do next. One day, I even overheard her telling her brother she thought I might get a tattoo on my bald head.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 minViews 1

Oi, Baldy, wake up! That was how my husband took to rousing me from sleep in those days.

It was the previous year when I resolved to do something that had never crossed my mind before. Some time before that, strange little lumps began to spring up all over my scalp. They looked for all the world like a rash, and the itching was nearly unbearable. My hair was shedding at a frightful pace.

I visited both the GP and a private hair specialist, but neither was much help. The doctor told me there was little point in taking vitaminsin her opinion, theyd never done anyone any good. Then, by chance, I came across an article claiming that shaving ones head completely could invigorate the hair follicles. The idea lingered in my mind for quite some time before I was brave enough to consider it, especially after my son admitted the notion of a bald mother made him nervous. In spite of his worrying, I pressed ahead.

I told my husband, William, to start with the clippers, then finish the job with a razor. He fetched the clippers, still half-convinced I might change my mind. But I was resolute, and soon it was done. When I looked in the mirror this head, so completely uncovered, surprised even methe shape was truly rather fine.

The greatest inconvenience was going outside; my head would become bitterly cold, and as my hair started to return, short new growths clung annoyingly to my pillow, making for many restless nights.

After that day, William took to calling me Baldy in the mornings, and it always set me off laughing. I was, by far, the baldest in our family, a fact which became a household joke. At first, our children were taken aback, but soon enough, my son, George, declared perhaps he ought to try and copy his mother.

My mother, ever the traditionalist, insisted I not visit until my hair had grown back, claiming she couldnt bear the sight. My daughter, Jane, begged me not to attend her school meetings without wearing a hat, and William, the unflappable soul, mused that if I were to show up bare-headed, no one would recall the meetings purpose, and the other mothers would envy my sense of style.

Once the hair was gone, the lumps vanished with it. Jane couldnt stop giggling at my new look and wondered aloud what sort of antics I might try next. I once overheard her tell her brother that she half-expected her mother to get a tattoo on her bald head.

Looking back on it all, it seems almost comical. But at the time, it was simply a chapter of life, as peculiar and ordinary as any other.

Everyone for Themselves “Mum, you have no idea what’s happening in the housing market right now,” Mark nervously shuffled through a stack of printouts, arranging them neatly only to spread them like a deck of cards across the kitchen table. “Prices are going up every week. If we don’t put down the deposit now, we’ll lose this flat to someone else.” Lydia slid a mug of cooling tea towards her son and sat opposite. Photoshop floor plans, figures, mortgage repayment graphs all flashed up on the paper. A three-bedroom new build, room for Timothy and Sophie to each finally have their own space. “How much are you short?” “Eighty-two thousand.” Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know it’s a lot. Ann’s coming apart at the seams, the kids are growing, and we’re still stuck in rentals…” Lydia watched her son and saw the same boy who used to pick dandelion bouquets for her. Thirty-two, two children of his own, but that little frown between his eyebrows was just the same as when he’d worried about unfinished homework. “I’ve got savings. They’re in my account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, promise. As soon as everything settles down, I’ll start returning it.” She covered his hand with her own, worn tough by a lifetime of cooking and cleaning. “Mark, it’s for the grandkids. What’s money compared to family?” At the bank, Lydia filled out the forms in the neat script honed by thirty years as an accountant. Eighty-two thousand. Almost everything she’d set aside through the years. For emergencies. Just in case. For “you never know.” Mark gave her a tight hug right at the cashier’s window, ignoring the waiting queue. “You’re the best. Honestly. I won’t forget.” Lydia patted his back. “Off you go now. Ann’s probably waiting.” …The first months in the new flat blurred together in a carousel of crosstown trips. Lydia arrived with Sainsbury’s bags—chicken, oats, butter, kids’ yoghurts. She helped Ann hang curtains, build IKEA furniture, scrub builder’s dust off the window ledges. “Timothy! Careful with those tools!” she shouted, balancing curtain hooks and explaining to her daughter-in-law the finer points of cottage pie. Ann nodded, phone in hand. Mark appeared in the evenings, worn out, ate his mum’s dinners in minutes, vanished to his room. “Thanks, Mum,” he called on his way out. “What would we do without you?” …Half a year later, her phone lit up with his number. “Hi, Mum… there’s a thing. The mortgage is due and the car needs repairs—missing by about three and a half grand.” Lydia transferred the money without hesitating. It’s hard for young families, after all—new expenses, little children, stressful jobs. They’ll get on their feet—return it. Or not. What does it matter when it’s family? The years slipped faster than water through fingers. Timothy turned seven—Lydia bought him that Lego set he’d begged his parents for. Sophie twirled in a pink sparkling dress, just like the one she’d seen on a Disney princess. “Nana, you’re the best!” Sophie hugged her, smelling of shampoo and sweets. Every weekend Lydia took the grandkids, or took them to the theatre, theme park, skating rink. Ice cream, toys, books. Her old coat pockets were stuffed with sweets and wet wipes. Five years passed in this cheerful, willing servitude. Money for the mortgage—“Mum, it’s a tight month.” Sick days—“Mum, we can’t take off work.” Food—“Mum, you’re going to the shops anyway…” Thank-yous became less frequent. …That morning she stared at the stained ceiling. Rusty streaks creeping across the plaster—her flat had flooded, and it was uninhabitable. She called her son. “Mark, I need help with repairs. I don’t know when I’ll get the insurance—” “Mum,” he interrupted, “I just can’t right now. The kids have clubs and classes. Ann’s just started a course…” “I’m not asking for much, just to help find someone to do the work. Or maybe—” “I really haven’t got time, Mum, especially not for something like that,” Mark repeated like he hadn’t heard her. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?” The dial tone. Lydia put down the phone. The screensaver flickered—a photo from last Christmas. Herself, Timothy, Sophie. All smiling. That money he’d borrowed without a thought. Those weekends she’d given to his children. The time, energy, love—all that was “before.” Now there were “other priorities.” A drop from the ceiling landed cold on her hand. The next day Ann rang herself—a rare occurrence that put Lydia on edge before her daughter-in-law even spoke. “Mrs Parker, Mark told me about your call,” Ann sounded irritated. “You do understand, everyone needs to look after their own problems, right? We’ve got to handle our own mortgage…” Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d been topping up every third month. The deposit made almost entirely from her own pocket. “Of course, Ann,” she replied calmly, “Everyone for themselves.” “Glad we agree. Mark’s just worried you’re upset. You’re not upset, are you?” “No. Not at all.” The dial tone. Lydia set the phone on the table and stared at it as if it were a strange insect. Then she went to the window, but found nothing outside to comfort her. Nights became endless hours with the ceiling pressing down, memories spinning through her mind. She revisited the last five years like counting prayer beads. She had created this herself. Raised her son to believe his mother was a never-ending resource. That morning Lydia called the estate agent. “I’d like to put my cottage on the market. Six plots, just outside London, all mains services connected.” The cottage she and her husband had built over twenty years. The apple trees she’d planted when pregnant with Mark. The veranda where countless summer evenings were spent. A buyer came in a month. Lydia signed the paperwork with no time for nostalgia. The money hit her account, and she coolly split it up: home repairs, a new savings account, a rainy-day fund. The builders moved in the next week. Lydia chose the tiles, wallpaper, taps herself. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—without saving for “bad days” or worrying who’d need help next. Mark didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia didn’t call either. The first phone call came after the renovations were complete. The new kitchen gleamed, windows no longer rattled, the pipes no longer leaked. “Mum, why haven’t you come over? Sophie’s been asking.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Living, Mark. My own life.” She visited the next week. Brought books for the grandchildren—nice gifts, but not extravagant. Spent a couple of hours over tea, chatting about weather and school. Declined dinner. “Mum, can you babysit the kids Saturday?” Mark waylaid her in the hall. “We’re—” “Can’t. I have plans.” She saw his face fall. He didn’t understand. Not yet. In time, he might. Months went by, and the truth dawned: without Mum’s transfers, the mortgage ate a third of their income. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to watch the kids. Lydia, meanwhile, opened a new high-interest savings account. Bought herself a proper winter coat—new, warm, not from a charity shop. Spent two weeks at a spa hotel. Took up Nordic walking. She remembered how Ann’s parents always kept their distance. Polite greetings at holidays, obligatory visits every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. No complaints from their daughter either. Maybe they’d been right all along? Rare visits with the grandchildren became formal. Lydia came, gave modest presents, chatted about school and mates. Left after a couple of hours, never stayed over, never took the kids away for the weekend. Timothy asked her once: “Nana, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Nana’s busy now, Timmy.” He didn’t understand. But Mark, standing in the doorway, maybe started to get it. Lydia went back to her freshly renovated flat that smelled of new paint and new furniture. She brewed herself a good cup of tea and settled into a comfy chair, bought with the cottage money. Guilt crept up at night, sometimes. But less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned: love isn’t martyrdom. Especially when no one notices—or cares—about your sacrifice. This time, she chose herself. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood.