Stories of Tie Up Games

This is part of a growing series of Katja stories that starts with

Katja 00: Prolog 1 - Early Signs viewtopic.php?t=23922
Katja 00: Prolog 2 - When TUGs were simple viewtopic.php?t=23905
Katja 01: What's a collar without a leash? viewtopic.php?t=23816
Katja 02: Making the shopping mall less boring viewtopic.php?t=23853
Katja 03: A question of peg and chain viewtopic.php?t=23881
Katja 04: Caged Birds Do Sing viewtopic.php?t=23931
Katja 05: How not to dance viewtopic.php?t=23950
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Katja 07: The Big Red viewtopic.php?t=23977


Katja 06: A Bald Decision / Backstory: A Piercing Need

(if you're here only for the TUG, skip directly to the 2nd post in this topic)

It happened in the summer after our collar-and-leash episode. Katja had exchanged her dog collar for a somewhat elegant choker — one of those black velvet bands, like the one Natalie Portman wore in "Léon: The Professional". This choker, however, didn’t feature a ring for attaching a leash.

We were sitting in the kitchen again after dinner. I was on my second glass of wine — mainly to finish the bottle. Apparently, Katja sensed an opportunity to take advantage of my slightly inebriated state. She sat down across from me, looked at me with her best doe eye expression, and asked sweetly: “Daddy, can I get a septum piercing?”

I nearly spilled my Merlot. “What?” I asked, completely thrown.
K: “It’s a piercing through the cartilage between the left and right nostrils,” she explained helpfully.
F: “Thank you. I know what a septum piercing is. Therefore the answer is no.”
K: “But I’d only wear a thin gold ring. Nothing flashy.”
F: “Still no. And anyway, what is a thin gold ring good when one can't even clip a leash there? The answer is no — from your father and your daddy, and your mother probably too. No conditions. No discussion.”
K: “But...”
F: “You can have on your butt!”

I didn’t bother arguing that even our sleepy village piercer has to follow age restrictions. And she had already 2 piercings in each earlobe. At age 13 this was more than enough. To cheer things up I joked:

F: “If you want a new piercing, ask Mr. Richardson — our 'weird' farmhand.”

She gave me a puzzled look.
K: “Mr. Richardson is gross.”
F: “But he does the ear tags for our sheep and knows everything about them. These days they even have WiFi.” (RFID - I know)
“I’m sure he’d be thrilled to tag you, my little lamb.”

Katja let out a frustrated sigh, got up, and started loading the dishwasher. Evil averted?

The next day, early in the evening, I received a phone call from Mr. Richardson. He sounded... concerned.

R: “This afternoon, Miss Katja came to see me — which is unusual enough. But then she asked about the sheep’s ear tags. Everything!
She wanted to see them up close, asked about their different colors, how the wireless identification system works, and how each sheep gets registered automatically in the computer.”

He cleared his throat.

R: “But she was especially interested in the applicator — the tool I use to tag newborn lambs.
Even asked if she could try it herself, and seemed disappointed when I told her there are no new lambs at this time of year.”
She asked if it hurts when I tag them. I told her — well, yeah, they twitch when I squeeze the applicator, so I assume it stings a bit. But not for long. Soon they jump around again.”
Then she wanted to know how to remove the tags. I explained that they’re designed never to be removed. The sheep wear them for life.
When the time comes, the butcher cuts off the ear with the tag and de-registers the animal on the Ministry of Agriculture’s website.”

There was a pause.

R: “I said if you tried to remove one, it would destroy the tag... and the ear. And anyway, one can’t legally sell a sheep without a tag these days. She then thanked me and walked away. I just thought... you should know.”

I sighed.

F: “Thank you for calling, Mr. Richardson. I really don’t know what Katja is up to anymore. Best lock away the tags and the applicator while she’s around.”

She worried me even more when she got home that evening because she talked about everything except ear tags.

But thankfully(?), her urge to change her appearance shifted soon to something else entirely.

Katja 06: A Bald Decision

Katja had black hair that she wore in varying lengths. Whenever she came to spend her summer vacation with me at the cottage, one of her first stops was Mr. Bradon, the local village hairdresser. There she got what I'd call a 'low-maintenance summer haircut' (Katja was still at an age where Mr. Bradon and his outdated salon met her beauty expectations.)

So, when we finished breakfast that morning, I wasn’t surprised when she brought up the hairdresser. But then she asked me

K: “Daddy, can I shave my head bald?”
F: “You mean ‘bald’ like your daddy’s buzzcut?”
K: “No, Daddy. Bald as in no hair at all. Just skin. Like Grandpa.”
F: “Great idea, my princess. That’ll save us at least 30 minutes every morning in the bathroom.”
K: “Father, please be serious.”
F: “As your father, I say ‘no.’ As your daddy — does your mother know?!”
K: “No. Do you think she'd mind?”
F: “Yes. She’d think we’ve both lost our minds.”
K: “But it would look so cool... and it would feel... different.”
F: “It would feel different the first day. But you’d still be bald tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that...”
K: “But eventually, my hair will grow back.”
F: “True. Luckily, it's Monday — and Mr. Bradon's salon is closed. Give me a bit of time to think it over.”

From this exchange, you can probably tell we live in a country where schools don’t care much about students’ hairstyles — unless, of course, you're pairing a bald head with combat boots and a baseball bat.

That evening after dinner, we picked up the conversation again.

F: “Okay, Katja. I can make you a deal. We both will consider this ‘bald idea’ seriously — under three conditions.”
K: “Shoot.”
F: “One: I want you to find a photo of a bald girl about your age. Print it out and tape it to the mirror in your room. You’ll see it every morning and evening — so you'll know exactly what you're getting into.”
K: “Okay, sounds fair. And the second?”
F: “Two: I want you to research how long it’ll take for your hair to grow back. Especially check how it will look: a) when school starts, b) at Christmas, and c) this time next year. Present your findings to me tomorrow evening.”
K: “Alright... And number three?”
F: “Number three: Neither of us knows how you — or others — will react to your new, hairless style. If you decide you need a wig, you’ll pay for it from your own piggy bank.”
K: “Deal. Can I use your computer?”

Katja did an excellent job. She found a photo of a bald girl who looked surprisingly similar to herself. There was something captivating about the confident way the girl looked straight into the camera. Katja printed the image on photo paper and taped it to her bedroom mirror.

That evening, she gave me a short presentation. She had found a blog from another girl who had documented her hair regrowth after going fully bald. We were both a bit shocked by how slow the process was. By the time school resumed, Katja would barely have a visible stubble.

"You'll have no use for your scrunchies for a very long time," I commented.

Saturday morning after breakfast, we were back at the kitchen table. I wasn’t surprised when she reaffirmed her decision.

K: “What about Mom?”
F: “Do you think I’m stupid? I talked to her on the phone before I even gave you the three conditions. She promised she’d still welcome you home — and she swore she wouldn’t sue me.”
K: “Okay. And I’m used to my brother’s dumb comments anyway. So… should we go to Mr. Bradon?”

F: “We could. But we’d save money if I shaved your head myself.”
K: “You? How?”
F: “I've shaved my beard for decades. How hard can it be to shave off hair until there’s none left? It’s not like you’re asking for curls or a ponytail.”
K: “You’d buzz it off with your electric razor?”
F: “Most of it, yes. Then I’d finish the last few millimeters with a blade. That’s the only way to get the skin smooth.”
K: “So you’d use your face razor on my head?”
F: “Exactly. I have used it successfully for years — with only minor blood loss.”

K: “Could we film it? Like, record the whole thing?”
F: “For your mom and your brother?”
K: “Yes — and for my future grandkids.”
F: “Well, then we can’t do it in the bathroom. There’s not enough space for the camera and lighting. I’d set up a chair in the hallway, in front of the mirror.”
K: “Sounds good. But... what if I change my mind halfway through?”

F: “What do you mean?”
K: “Imagine I try to run away with only half my head shaved. That would look really silly."
F: "Indeed."
K: "Maybe you should... I don’t know... tie me to the chair? Just for show, for the video?”
F: “You mean like... duct tape your hands to the armrests?”
K: “Maybe. But that old yellow rope from the shed might look more dramatic — on video”
F: “Makes sense. Would give the video a nice ‘damsel-in-distress’ touch.”
K: “And maybe tie my upper body too, so I don’t squirm.”
F: “Squirming around could really mess up your haircut. Smart thinking. Great minds think alike.”
K: “Should we use a cape, so I don’t get hair all over my clothes?”
F: “I was thinking of cutting a hole in one of those big black plastic sacks from the farm. Poke your head through and done."
K: "But they’re black — hard to see the ropes on video."
F: "I’d have to find a clear sack instead.”
K: “Maybe you should gag me too? I might say inappropriate things as you keep shaving…”
F: “If I gag you with a bandana, I can’t shave the back of your head. Duct tape would work better — for show, of course.”
K: “Or blindfold me — so it’s a surprise when it’s all done.”
F: “With that colorful scarf of yours. All for dramatic effect, of course.”
K: “Will you use your shaving cream that smells so good?”
F: “If you want — right at the end.
I was also thinking: after I finish, I’ll hold out my hand like I’m expecting a tip. You stand up and give me a kiss on the cheek instead.”
K: “But if I’m still tied up, I can’t stand.”
F: “Right... maybe I just kiss you on your freshly shaved crown, and we both smile into the camera.”

Katja grinned at me, a little too long. Then she picked up her phone.

F: “What are you doing?”
K: “Making an appointment with Mr. Bradon.”

Under the pretense of needing a haircut myself, I accompanied her to Mr. Bradon’s salon. When she was called up and seated in the chair, and Mr. Bradon asked how much she wanted cut off, she declared boldly:

“Bald. Cut it all off.”

Mr. Bradon turned to me with a puzzled look. But when I gave him a calm nod of confirmation, he raised his eyebrows, shrugged slightly, and got to work. The few other customers and employees in the salon fell silent, watching in awe. A teenage boy even pulled out his phone to record the scene — but I made him stop before he could get too far. This was Katja’s moment, not a social media spectacle. When Mr. Bradon was done and turned the chair for her to see the final result, I think I saw a tear in her eye — but maybe it was just something in the mirror.
I walked over and hugged her. But when I rubbed her freshly shaved head, she rolled her eyes. Stepping out of the salon and into the public took a moment of courage. She hesitated briefly at the door, took a breath, and walked out.

The walk back to our car was very quiet. I asked her how she felt. “My head feels cold,” she said. I offered her a cap, which I had wisely brought along. Unfortunately, the only one I could find back at the cottage was from my football club — which, naturally, wasn’t hers.
“Daddy, I definitely don’t need a cap that badly,” she said with theatrical disgust, and refused it.
From that point on, her smile started to return, and soon it took over.

(Either it was the warm summer weather or hoodies just weren’t trendy that year — but oddly, neither of us thought of bringing one.)

Back at the cottage, Katja happened to overhear a rather cryptic phone call I made with her grandmother: “Yes, white and blue. No, more like Argentina. See you on Sunday.”

That evening, I asked her again how she felt. “Whenever I walk past a mirror, I stop and stare,” she said. “Sometimes I feel regret. Sometimes I feel excited. But it’s never dull.”

Naturally, we took a few “official” photos to send to her mom and brother.
On the phone, her mother stayed mostly quiet, but — true to her word — she didn’t make a fuss. She'd accept Katja back home and wouldn't sue me. Only her brother, who usually finds everything she does “cringy,” was — somewhat surprisingly — clearly impressed.

On Sunday, we visited my parents. Her grandpa, after giving her smooth scalp a friendly rub, said something along the lines of: “Partner look!” He even encouraged her to take a selfie of the two of them side by side. And her grandma — after also rubbing her bald head — presented her with a newly knitted beanie, proudly done in the colors of Katja’s favorite football club.

While Katja stayed around the farm, her new look never became a problem. The sheep didn’t care, and to the farmhands, she was simply the granddaughter of their employers.

In the village, people were initially concerned. Some quietly asked if she was undergoing chemotherapy. But once Katja smiled and explained, “Nope, I just wanted to try it,” the tension usually broke. Most of them asked if they could touch her head but before long, the novelty faded.

Her being bald quickly became normal. For her. For me. For nearly everyone around. After three weeks, we were both a little shocked how slowly her hair was growing back. By the time school resumed, she would still have nothing more than a severe buzz cut.

When I brought her to the station at the end of the summer holidays, she wore neither a cap nor a hoodie. Just a bald girl on a platform.
I wished her a safe trip and strength for the new school year, then gave her a goodbye kiss — right on the crown of her head.

(Thirteen minutes! For those who wonder how much time being bald saved her every morning in the bathroom. I stopped the time each day in the week before and after.)

13 minutes!!! 13 is an unlucky number which of course means there will be something strange going on in Katja's life in the future

WhereAmI wrote: 1 week ago 13 minutes!!! 13 is an unlucky number which of course means there will be something strange going on in Katja's life in the future

"Strange" things happen indeed. But so far I hadn't blamed it on her father's stopwatch. Would make story telling a little easier ...