The barber reluctantly let go my cheek, which he was pinching with the force of clinched nippers, and taking down a thin apology of a red cake of soap, he had no sooner wetted it in a basin of water than he went all over my face with it. To have a piece of soap applied directly to the skin of my face was one of my rarest experiences in barber shops, and I was not over-pleased to see that the water in which the soap was dipped had the appearance of having stood there for some days!
Sitting in a barber’s chair, I was called upon, in vindication of my right as a customer, to look into a mirror. I have been thinking, for sometime, however, if I should not waive this right. A mirror owes it to itself that its surface is perfectly even and flat, and the image it reflects shall be faithful to the original. If the owner of a mirror, which is not possessed of this common quality, forces you to look into it, you may charge him, as you will a poor photographer, with intentionally injuring your looks. Snubbing the vain may serve cultural purposes; but I fail to see the justice of insulting you by calling a reflection your face, which makes a mockery of it. The mirror, which I was expected to exercise patience to look into, has decidedly been insulting me. I slightly turn my face right, and the mirror makes all nose of it. I turn left, and my mouth extends clear up to the ears. I look a perfect picture of a crushed toad, when I turn my eyes upward. My head elongates itself limitlessly, the moment I incline it ever so little forward. I must make of myself monsters of all imaginable variety as long as I sit before this mirror. Who can say that I was not undergoing a torture?
Moreover, this barber was no common barber. He appeared human enough, when I first looked in, and saw him depositing tobacco ashes from his long pipe on a toy flag of Anglo-Japanese Alliance, apparently feeling very wearisome. But fear crept into me, the moment I walked in and gave him the custody of my head; for a doubt arose in me whether the right of ownership of my cranium and parts appertaining passed completely to him or whether I still retained a small fraction of it myself. His handling of my head! I felt that it could not remain there much longer, even if it were nailed onto my shoulders.
His manner of using the razor showed him to be a perfect stranger to the rules of civilization. The weapon made a most blood-curdling sound, when scraping across my cheek. As it came to the tuft of hair by the ear, the artery almost snapped. About the chin, it sported itself making a noise as of somebody crunching the frost raised ground. The most dreadful part of the story was that this barber considered himself the most skilful tonsor in the land.
Lastly, the man was well loaded with something of fairly strong flavour. Every time he said Danna, a smell accompanied the word and a gust of highly-charged gas attacked my nose. At this rate there was no telling when or where his razor might make a jaunt of its own. The man using it having no definite plan to guide him, it was impossible that I, who placed my head in his custody, should have any idea of it. I should not grumble as my head was in his hands as part of a legitimate understanding. But what, if he should change his mind and set about cutting my throat?
“It is only fellows who are not sure of their hand that use soap. But it cannot be helped, perhaps, in your case, because you are too hairy, Danna.” So protesting my man put the soap back to the shelf; but disobeying his wish, it fell to the clay floor.
“I don’t think I have seen much of you around here, Danna. You have come here lately?”
“Why, yes, I came here, only a few days ago.”
“Is that so? Where are you stopping?”
“At Shiota Hotel.”