* * *

The first thing he always did was to pop it—snapping the barber’s shroud like a whelting-towel in the boy’s gym shower. Then he would drape the shroud upon me and clasp it shut with his little clip—always too tight in the neck.

I wanted to complain about the neckband, but that would require dialogue—God save me from that. Then, like digging for loose change in a sofa, he jammed two fingers under the collar to reassure himself he had the discomfort level perfect. God bless the rote old character.

Like a car jack, he pumped the barber chair up to where it suited him, stopped, and pumped it one more time for no reason. Barbers do that—one last hydraulic jerk after the victim has settled in.