Transition (Patreon)

If you told the nineteen-year-old me that I’d end up here — sitting shirtless, tattooed from neck to waist, smoking a cigar thicker than my thumb, completely bald and loving it — I would have laughed you out of the room. Or maybe flipped my hair at you for dramatic effect. Because back then, my hair was me.
It was my armor, my ego, my one reliable compliment. People would say, “George, your hair is amazing,” and I’d pretend to be humble, but secretly I’d think, Yeah, I know.

It started so harmlessly. I just wanted a change. Maybe I was bored, maybe I wanted attention — or maybe I was curious what would happen if I stopped hiding behind the same reflection every day. So I went live one evening, scissors in hand, and said, “Alright, folks, today’s the day.”

The comments exploded.
“He’s doing it!”
“OMG!”
“Egghead incoming!”
They thought it was a joke. Honestly, so did I. But I cut the first lock, and suddenly it was quiet. Just me, the sound of metal against hair, and this wild feeling of liberation — mixed with mild terror.

Just a few moments later, I buzzed it all off. The moment that machine touched my scalp, I started laughing like a maniac. It wasn’t fear. It was adrenaline. I looked in the mirror, and I swear, it felt like watching someone else break out of my face.

Then came the brows. Oh yeah, that moment of pure madness. I thought, If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. The razor glided, the foam melted away, and there it was — my naked, unfiltered self. People online lost their minds. “The brow?? That’s crazy!” — they said. I agreed. It was crazy. But it also felt right.

Of course, hair grows back — unless you make sure it doesn’t. So I went in for laser treatments. Over and over, until the follicles surrendered. It wasn’t about vanity anymore. It was about permanence. Commitment. I wanted a version of myself that couldn’t hide behind shampoo or styling gel.

Days turned into weeks. 67 days of permanent baldness. I’d stare at my reflection and sometimes wonder, “Did I go too far?” But the doubt faded, replaced by curiosity. If I could change this… what else could I change?

So I started training. At first it was just exercise, then it became obsession. Sweat replaced hair as the thing that defined me. I built muscle, slowly, painfully. My scalp gleamed under the gym lights like a badge of honor.

By Day 101, I was stronger, leaner, still a little uncertain — but hooked on the process.
By Day 1095, I was unrecognizable. I looked like the kind of man who could wrestle his old self and win without breaking a sweat. The hairlessness had become power — discipline — a choice carved into my skin.

And because I have a bad habit of never stopping once I start, I kept evolving. Earrings. Then the septum. Then the tattoos. It started with a small pattern on my shoulder, but you know how that goes — you fill one space, and the rest of the body feels naked.

By the time I hit Day 2655, the transformation was complete. My skin wasn’t just smooth anymore — it was alive with ink, stories written in lines and spirals. Every inch meant something. Every curve of design told the world: “This is who I chose to be.”

People still ask me if I regret it. If I miss the hair. And sure — sometimes, when I see an old photo, I think, “Wow, that was me.” But the truth is, I’ve never felt more myself than I do now. It’s funny, isn’t it? I lost everything that used to define me — the softness, the curls, the pretty face — and found something rawer, stronger, freer underneath.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see what I lost. I see the proof that change is real — that identity is something you can build, sculpt, erase, and rebuild again if you dare.

So, no regrets. Just new rituals. A cigar instead of a comb. Sweat instead of conditioner. And the quiet satisfaction of knowing that the boy who used to hide behind his hair grew up into a man who doesn’t need any at all.

Day 2670 of permanent baldness.
Still me — just better.