Cut-throat barber

I had come from the plains and drifted into town on my horse; tied it to the railing outside and walked with my spurs jangling onto the sidewalk outside, positioned my cheroot so that I could rasp in my dust coated voice through the cheroot smoke, "a shave and a bottle of whisky, barber". He sent his boy to get the whisky as he obligingly point out the chair I needed to seat myself.

Taking my hat reverently and hanging it up, I settled into the chair and adjusted my belt and six shooters to get more comfortable and waited the attentions of shaving foam and cold sharp steel! Six weeks of living rough on the plain driving the cattle takes its toll on a man. Especially when other men try to take what's yours….the wrong way. Yes, my eyes looked back from the mirror with hooded remembrance of another hard cattle drive in a harder country still…….

While my barber lathered my chin jaw line up with furry brush and froth, I couldn't help imagine another time when shaves like this were the norm and not the exception. I have always wanted to experience this; ala Clint Eastwood in any spaghetti western you care to name! But other images flooded into my imagination of photos taken from crime scenes you see in all those Chicago or New York Prohibition era gangster films of the victim having a shave and the gunmen walking in. All that is left is a bloodied victim slouched in a chair with a half shaved face.

I knew that would never happen here, but I was intrigued to see what it was like to feel cold steel pressed against my throat in the control of a man I barely knew. He had gone a long way to re-assure me that he used new blades and everything that touched my face was sterilized, but what he didn't say was that it would sting like b*****y when he splashed disinfectant on my face at the end! My eyes flew open because of the sting. That was a little bit unexpected!

He also didn't mention that he would give his version of an Indian head massage. There is nothing gentle about how he administered his massage; although that is a good thing. A lot more gently and I would seriously doubted that it was his grandson in the chair next to me and the glint in his eye was for the amount of money that I would give him; and nothing else! I noticed that the previous Indian bloke didn't get one of these at the end of his shave. But then again, I only had to pay what I thought it was worth. Ah…..I was getting the full package! After assaulting my head (after he had finished massaging my face and jaw where he had shaved), he moved to my shoulder blades. There was no use of fingers to diminish the tension or stress in my muscles. Oh no, it was more like he was trying to beat it out of them!

I am not sure if Ing was more surprised than me when the cut-throat barber slapped my back pretty bloody hard with both hands. If I was not holding onto the handgrips I would have had to peel my newly shaved face from the mirror in front of me.

I could imagine him saying, "Take that. And that! You think that this is a massage, well think again! Here, take that Johnny foreigner!" All the while he was smiling! Nice……

He also didn't tell me that in a few days time, all the cream he had given me to soothe his attentions to my face, would have me breaking out in tiny little spots! Bloody hell, I bet you Clint Eastwood never had to bother with those!