“No, we have a proof that it is not. Don’t, Danna, it is risky.”
“I am perfectly safe. What kind of proof do you have?”
“Well, it is a queer affair. Light a cigarette and take your time, and I shall tell.... Will you have a shampoo?”
“No thanks.”
“Let me then shake off the dandruff a little.”
The barber put his ten fingers, which ended in well grown nails, loaded with goodly deposits of dirt, upon my cranium, and set them in motion most violently, forward and backward. The formidable nails ploughed the root of each hair in my head like a rake in the hand of a giant combing a field of wild grass with the power and swiftness of a hurricane. I do not know how many hundreds of thousands of hair there are in my head; I only felt that every one of my capillary growth was being up-rooted, leaving the skin in wales, in addition to making the skull and the grey matter of brains vibrate most violently. So strongly did the man rummage my head.
“How do you feel, now? Wasn’t that good?”
“You went at it pretty lively.”
“Eh? Everybody feels clear in head after my scrub.”
“I feel as if my head is dropping away.”