Yesterday I made an appointment with the town barber to have him cut
my hair at 5:15 P.M. I was quite prompt but found him unprepared. He
lived off a little court yard which was connected by a close to the
main alley of the borough. In crossing the threshold of the kitchen I
entered the tonsorial parlor. His work bench was next to the family
range, and a moth-eaten mirror reflected pox-marked people. The madame
set the chair in the middle of the room and brought the scissors and
comb from the other room. The twelve-year old offspring was arrested
in the midst of rolling a cigarette when his father commanded him to
hold the lamp. So the little fellow stood transfixed with the
half-rolled cigarette in one hand and the family lamp in the other.
Every time the father hesitated, the boy tried to set down the lamp
and finish the cigarette, but the father would jump to it again and
keep the boy from making any headway. Believe it, the boy kept his
father hard at it. Sometimes the lamp nearly lost its balance, but the
cigarette kept level, so I took to watching the cigarette. He never
would have succeeded in rolling it if the father hadn’t had to go to
the shed to get the clippers. As it was, he returned before the boy
could light up. Meanwhile, the old dame, who needed a shave more than
I did a hair cut, was preparing to feed the animals. Once when she was
leaning over me to get a dipper of water out of the pail under the
barber’s table, she lost her balance and fell into my lap. But she
didn’t spill the water and the old man didn’t miss a clip. She would
stop her work from time to time and come over with folded arms to see
how the hair was coming off. The professor didn’t cut any off the top.
When I suggested that he cut just a little I think it hurt his
feelings, because he changed my hair from a “Broadway-comb-back” to a
“Sing-Sing-sanitary” in about ten strokes. But it was the quickest
hair cut I ever had and he didn’t tell me I needed a shampoo, so I
gave him eight cents instead of six.