I went back to lathering his beard. My hands were shaking again. The man couldn't
have noticed and that was my advantage. But I had hoped that he wouldn't come. A lot
of our men had probably seen him come in. And having the enemy on your turf makes
you act a certain way. I had to shave this beard like I would any other, with caution, with
care, like that of any other regular, making sure that I did not spill even one drop of
blood from a single pore. Making sure that the little circles of his beard didn’t deflect
the blade. Making sure that his skin remained clean, warm, polished, that when I
passed the back of my hand over it, I would feel the surface without a single hair. Yes. I
was a secret revolutionary, but I was still a barber of conscience, proud of the
cleanliness of my profession. And this four-day-old beard would make for a job well
done.
I took the razor, raised the two handles at an oblique angle, let the razor go, and started
the task, working my way down on one of the sideburns. The blade responded perfectly.
The hair proved tough and hard, not very long, but compact. His skin started appearing
little by little. The razor sounded with its typical sound, and upon it fell lumps of soap
mixed with bits of stubble. I paused to clean off the razor, took the leather strap again
and started to re-sharpen the steel, because I am a barber who does things well. The
man had kept his eyes closed, opened them, put one of his hands on top of the sheet,
felt the part of his face where the soap started to dry off, and told me: "Come to the
schoolyard this afternoon at six."
I took the razor, raised the two handles at an oblique angle, let the razor go, and started
the task, working my way down on one of the sideburns. The blade responded perfectly.
The hair proved tough and hard, not very long, but compact. His skin started appearing
little by little. The razor sounded with its typical sound, and upon it fell lumps of soap
mixed with bits of stubble. I paused to clean off the razor, took the leather strap again
and started to re-sharpen the steel, because I am a barber who does things well. The
man had kept his eyes closed, opened them, put one of his hands on top of the sheet,
felt the part of his face where the soap started to dry off, and told me: "Come to the
schoolyard this afternoon at six."
"Will it be the same as the other day?" I asked, horrified.
"Maybe even better," he responded.
"What do you think you’re going to do?"
“I don’t know yet. But we’ll have fun.” He leaned back again and closed his
eyes. I approached him with the blade raised up. “Do you think you’re going to
punish them all?” I ventured timidly.
"All of them."
The soap was drying on his face. I had to hurry. I looked into the mirror at the street.
The same as always: the grocery store with two or three customers inside. Then I
looked at the clock: two-thirty in the afternoon. The blade continued its way down his
face. Now I worked my way down the other sideburn. A blue, compact beard. He'd let it
grow like some poets or priests. It looked good on him. Many wouldn't have recognized
him. All the better for him, I thought, as I tried to softly polish all of his neck area.
Because there I definitely needed to handle the blade well, since the hair, though not so
tough, was tangled up in little whirls. A curly beard. The tiny pores could open up, and
release their pearl of blood. A good barber like me is rightly proud in never letting this
occur to any client. And this one was a first-class client. How many of us had he ordered
killed? How many of us had he ordered mutilated? No. It was better not to think about it.