The razor swept cleanly across Hawksworth's chest, leaving a swath of soft skin in its wake. It came down again, barely missing a nipple as he moved to rise.
"You must be still, Sahib. You will harm yourself."
"I told you I'll not have it." Hawksworth pushed the razor away.
"But it is our custom." The man seemed to plead. "Khan Sahib ordered that you be groomed as an honored guest."
"Well, damn your customs. Enough."
There was a moment of silence. Then the turbaned man bowed, his face despondent.
"As the Sahib desires."
He signaled the barber to rub a light coat of saffron-scented oil on Hawksworth's face and then to begin trimming Hawksworth's hair with the pair of silver scissors he had brought. The barber quickly snipped away the growth of the voyage, leaving the hair moderately cropped, in the Moghul fashion.
Hawksworth examined the mirror again.
Damn if I wouldn't make a proper Cheapside dandy. Right in style. And I hate being in style.