huxley rustem settled himself patiently upon the hairdresser’s waiting bench to probe the speculation that jumped grasshopper-like into the field of his inquisitorial mind: ’why does a man become a barber? well, what is it that persuades a man, not by the mere compulsion of destiny, but by the sweet reasonableness of inclination, to dedicate his activities to the excision of other people’s pimples and the discomfiture of their hairy growths? he had glanced through the two papers, punch and john bull, handed him by the boy in buttons, and now, awaiting his turn, posed himself with this inquiry. there was a girl at it, too, at the end of the saloon. she seemed to have picked him out from the crowd of men there; he caught her staring, an attractive girl. it seemed insoluble; misfortunate people may, indeed must, by the pressure of circumstances, become sewermen, butchers, scavengers, and even clergymen, but the impulse to barbery was, he felt, quite indelicately ironic. how that girl stared at him—if she was not very careful she would be clipping the fellow’s ear—did she think she knew him? he rather hoped she would have to attend to him; would he be lucky enough? huxley tried to estimate the chances by observing the half-dozen toilets in progress, but his calculations did not encourage the hope at all. it was very charming for an agreeable woman, a stranger, too, to do that kind of service for you. he remembered that, after his marriage237 five years ago, he had tried to persuade his wife to lather and shave him, “just for a lark, you know,” but she was adamant, didn’t see the joke at all! well, well, he decided that the word barber derived in some ironic way from the words barbarism or barbarity, expressing, unconsciously perhaps, contempt on the part of the barber for a world that could only offer him this imposture for a man’s sacred will to order and activity. yet it didn’t seem so bad for women—that splendid young creature there at the end of the saloon! the boy in buttons approached, and huxley rustem was ushered to that vacant chair at the end; the splendid young thing had placed a wrapper about him—she had almost “cuddled” it round his neck—and stood demurely preparing to do execution upon his poll, turning her eyes mischievously upon his bright-hued socks, which, by a notable coincidence, were the same colour as her own handsome hose. huxley had a feeling that she had cunningly arranged the succession of turns in order to secure him to her chair—which shows that he was still young and very impressionable. such a feeling is one of the customary assumptions of vanity, the natural and prized, but much-denied, possession of all agreeable people. huxley, as the girl had already noted, and now saw more vividly in the mirror fronting them, was agreeable, was attractive. (my dear reader, both you and huxley rustem are right, the dainty barbaress had laid her nets for this particular victim.)
“how would you like it cut, sir?” she asked, placing a hand upon each of his shoulders, and peering round at him with enamouring eyes.
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“oh, with a pair of scissors, don’t you think?” he replied at a venture, for he was not often waggish. but it was a very successful sally, the girl chuckled with rapture, loose fringes of her hair tickled his cheek, and he caught puffs of her sweet-scented breath. she was gold-haired, not very tall, and had pleasant turns about her neck and face and wrists that almost fascinated him. when they had agreed upon the range and extent of his shearing, the girl proceeded to the accomplishment of the task in complete silence, almost with gravity. huxley began wondering how many hundreds and thousands of crops were squeezed annually by the delicious fingers, how many polls denuded by those competent shears. very sad. once a year, he supposed, she would go holidaying for a week or ten days; she would go to bournemouth for the bathing or for whatever purpose it is people go to bournemouth, barmouth, or blackpool. he determined to come in again the day after to-morrow and be shaved by her.
at the conclusion of the rite she brushed his coat collar very meticulously, tiptoeing a little, and remarked in a bright manner upon the weather, which was also bright. then she went back to shave what huxley described to himself as a “red-faced old cockalorum,” whom he at once disliked very thoroughly. she had given him a check with a fee marked upon it; he took this down the stairs and paid his dues to “a bald-headed old god-like monster”—huxley felt sure he was—who sat in the shop below, surrounded by fringe-nets, stuffings, moustache wax, creams, toothbrushes, and sponges.
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two days later huxley rustem repeated his visit, but not all the intrigue of the girl nor his own man?uvring could effect the happy arrangement again, although he sat for a long time feeling sure that there was no other establishment of its kind in which the elements of celerity were so unreservedly abandoned, and the flunkeyism so peculiarly viscous. the many mirrors, of course, multiplied the objects of his factitious contempt; those male barbers were small vain beings of disagreeable outline to whom the doom of shaving tens of thousands of chins for ever and ever afforded a white-faced languid happiness. huxley was exasperated—his personality always ran so easily to exasperation—by the care with which the wrinkled face of a sportive old gent of sixty was being massaged with steaming cloths. he wore pretty brown button boots and large check trousers; there was still a vain wisp or two of white hair left upon his tight round skull and his indescribably silly old face. in the outcome our hero had perforce to be shaved by a youth of the last revolting assiduity, who caressed his chin with strong, excoriating palms.
in the ensuing weeks huxley rustem became a regular visitor to the saloon, but he suffered repeated disappointments. he was disconsolate; it was most baffling; not once did he secure the bliss of her attentions. he felt himself a fool; some men could do these things as easily as they grew whiskers, but rustem was not one of them, for the traditions of virtue and sweet conduct were very firmly rooted in him; he was like a mouse living in a large white empty bath which, if it was unscaleable, was clean,240 and if it was rather blank was never terrifying. it is easy, so very easy, to be virtuous when you can’t be anything else. but still he very much desired to take the fair barber out to dinner, say, just for an hour or two in a quiet place where one eats and chats and listens to the pleasant shrilling of restaurant violins. he would be able to amuse her with tales and recitals of his experiences and she would constantly exclaim “really!” as if entranced—as she probably would be. in his imagined hour her conversational exchanges never developed beyond that, yet it was enough to thrill him with a mild happiness. an egoist is a mystic without a god, but seldom ever without a goddess. it was bliss to adore her, but very heaven for her to be adoring him. to be just to huxley rustem that was all he meant, but try as he would he could never make up the happy occasion. it was a most discomfiting experience. it is true that he saw her in the street on three or four occasions, but each time he was accompanied by his wife, and each time he was guilty of a vain pretence, his behaviour to his companion being extremely casual—as if she were just an acquaintance instead of being an important alliance. but no one could possibly have mistaken the lady for anything but huxley’s very own wife, and the little barber was provocatively demure at these encounters. once, however, he was alone, and she passed, ogling him in a very frank way. but she did not understand egoists like rustem. he was impervious to any such direct challenge; he thought it a little silly, coarse even. had she been shy and diffident, allowing him to be masterful241 instead of confusing him, he would have fluttered easily into her flame.
so the affair remained, and would have remained for ever but that, by the grace of fortune, he found himself one day at last actually sitting again in front of the charming girl, who was not less aware of the attraction than he himself. she was nervous and actually with her shears clipped a part of his ear. huxley was rather glad of that, it eased the situation, but on his departure he committed the rash act for which he never afterwards forgave himself. her fingers were touching his as she gave him the pay check, when he took suddenly from his pocket a silver coin and pressed it into her hand, smiling. it was as if he had struck her a blow. he was shocked at the surprised resentment in the fierce glance she flung him. she tossed the coin into a tray for catching tobacco ash and cigarette ends. he realized at once the enormity of the affront; his vulgar act had smashed the delicate little coil between them. vague and almost frivolous as it was, she had prized it. poor as it was, it could yet deeply humiliate him. but it was a blunder that could never be retrieved, and he turned quickly and sadly out of the saloon, feeling the awful sting of his own contempt. crass fool that he was, didn’t he realize that even barbers had their altitudes? did he think he could buy a jewel like that, as he bought a packet of tobacco, with a miserable shilling? perhaps huxley rustem was unduly sensitive about it, but he could never again bring himself to enter the saloon and meet that wounded gaze. he only recovered his balance242 when, a fortnight later, he encountered her in the street wearing the weeds of a widow! then he felt almost as indignant as if she had indeed deceived him!
