Shave money

Today I got a haircut and a hot shave.
There’s something decidedly refreshing, relaxing and rewarding in the pampers of a haircut. The pointless chatter, the points of insight and the white lies you tell the barber. Their gentle dabbing, slapping, cutting and spraying of perfumes, oils and hair. As you fear that your look is being destroyed. Your inner turmoil over your style. The wiping, after each grating action that removes a bit of your facial hair. The concentration intertwines with the honest vulnerability. The gentle touches, the craftsman’s approach, gently assertive. Molding, shaping, sculpting.
Pushing on your chin, alignment, symmetry.
The soft skin under your chin, a hot straight razor, tests the skins surface.
The sound of leaves dragging over tarmac, or hay as it gently cracks under foot in a bar somewhere.
Out of the cold, sunny as it is this Canadian November.
Wooden interior, hanging lights, trophies mounted on the wall.
Like a ski lodge.
“Who cuts a barber’s hair?” I think to myself and I finally close my eyes to focus on the sensation of this encounter. Relaxed and trusting. No longer taking part in the conversation. Carefree. Blessed with faith; the abandon of worries that plague the new customer.

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