ABOUT BARBERS. 26 1 



that way. Then he dried it by slapping with the dry part of the towel, as if a 

 human being ever dried his face in such a fashion; but a barber seldom rubs you 

 like a Christian. Next he poked bay rum into the cut place with his towel, then 

 chcked the wound with powdered starch, then soaked it with bay rum again, and 

 would have gone on soaking and powdering it for evermore, no doubt, if I had not 

 rebelled and begged off. He powdered my whole face now, straightened me up, 

 and began to plough my hair thoughtfully with his hands. Then he suggested a 

 shampoo, and said my hair needed it badly, very badly. I observed that I sham- 

 pooed it myself very thoroughly in the bath yesterday. I "had him " again. He 

 next recommended some of " Smith's Hair Glorifier," and offered to sell me a 

 bottle. I declined. He praised the new perfume, " Jones' Delight of the Toilet," 

 and proposed to sell me some of that. I declined again. He tendered me a tooth- 

 wash atrocity of his own invention, and when I declined offered to trade knives 

 with me. 



He returned to business after the miscarriage of this last enterprise, sprinkled 

 me all over, legs and all, greased my hair in defiance of my protest against it, 

 rubbed and scrubbed a good deal of it out by the roots, and combed and brushed 

 the rest, parting it behind, and plastering the eternal inverted arch of hair down 

 on my forehead, and then, while combing my scant eyebrows and defiling them 

 with pomade, strung out an account of the achievements of a six-ounce black and 

 tan terrier of his till I heard the whistles blow for noon, and knew I was five min- 

 utes too late for the train. Then he snatched away the towel, brushed it lightly 

 about my face, passed his comb through my eyebrows once more, and gaily sang 

 out "Next!" 



This barber fell down and died of apoplexy two hours later. I am waiting over 

 a day for my revenge — I am going to attend his funeral. 



