This is what happened.
"Good morning, Sir. Your turn next but six."
A long, long interval.
"Shave, Sir? Lovely weather we're having. Razor all right, Sir?"
I said as little as possible; it is the only safe thing.
"Face massage, Sir?"
"No, thanks," I mumbled.
"Wonderful thing for the face, Sir; make a new man of you. Invigorates
the circulation, improves the complexion--"
"Oh, all right," I gasped.
And then for about twenty minutes snatches of conversation floated to
me through bundles of wet towels. My head was having a Turkish bath.
My face was covered with ointments and creams. Currents of electricity
played about my brow.
"Just trim your hair, Sir?"
I swear I said "No," but before I knew what was happening the scissors
were running merrily over my head.
"Singeing, Sir?"
"Er--no. I--"
"Finest thing in the world, Sir. It's a treat to see hair like this.
Just a bit 'endy,' but singeing will soon put that right."
Even had I been blind I should have discovered that I was undergoing
the process.
"What would you like for the shampoo, Sir? Eau de Quinine--Violet--"
"I don't think--"
My feeble protest was cut short.
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