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Before the advent of male vanity, the local barbershop used to be a regaling hotspot. The haircut was then a simple ritual to be performed every two months or so to avoid a barbarous appearance. The client would be too shy and embarrassed to stare at the mirror and display his interest in himself. All he would spare was the occasional stealthy glance to ensure that he wasn’t going to look like a drenched rat at the end of it all. Since the barber gave everybody the same haircut, his practiced hand took care of his job without involving his mind. He used his mental capacity to act as raconteur and juicy gossipmonger.
With the arrival of the new narcissism, men became singularly obsessed with their features. They had no time now for neighborhood gossip. My old barber, astute entrepreneur that he was, turned his barber shop into a salon, and later into a beauty parlour for men. Naive blokes like me continued to think men were supposed to be handsome.
The barber could no longer trust his practiced hand to automatically do its standard job. He had to carefully attend to each customer’s fastidious demands. Gossip, therefore, died and a sepulchral silence descended on the shop except for the customers’ self-obsessed questions and the barber’s answers. The local newspapers, which used to lie in disarray, disappeared. In their place appeared glossy film and fashion magazines, and even boring business journals. A pantheon of fascinating bottles of cosmetics replaced the lone alum stone, for decades the balm for the face after it had endured the bloody treatment of a shave with a knife.
Unlike earlier when I could walk into the shop any time I pleased, I now had to call a receptionist and fix up an appointment. My barber, with his newfound affluence, had hired an attractive woman for this position. She was seated in the foyer, and when she was not fixing appointments, was busy filing her nails. She referred to him as “the chief hairdresser,” not “the barber.”
When I entered his shop last month, I saw my barber straddling two jobs. His assistant appeared to be on leave. In one seat, was a balding man with a few strands of hair combed across his shining pate. The barber was carefully dyeing each strand. In the next seat was a man with short-cropped hair. His reflection showed his entire face covered in white. I was momentarily spooked to find cucumber slices where his eyes should have been. I was by now educated enough to know the man was undergoing a procedure called “facial.”
“Let me finish with these gentlemen,” my barber called out to me. “Take your time,” I said, and settled down to watch the fun.
“Good progress since last time, sir,” the barber said to the bald man. “I can see growth of many small but new hairs.” Without lifting his head, the bald man responded, “I have been regularly using the hair cream you recommended. You really think there are new hairs?”
“Without a doubt,” the barber asserted. “With 30 years experience, I can always tell when I see new hair. Besides, I have been handling your hair for the last 20 years. I know the difference. That hair cream has worked for many people, not everybody. Clearly in your case it seems to be working.”
A suppressed smile appeared on the bald man’s face while I watched with incredulity. I was no trichologist, but I knew for certain that this bald man wasn’t getting any new hair.
“How much does hair growth improve in cases when the hair cream works?” the bald man ventured to ask. “Sir, you won’t believe this. In some cases, when all hope was lost, I have seen heads full of hair that I was worried those fellows would start looking like grizzlies.”
The bald man smiled his suppressed smile again. “No guarantees though,” the barber warned. “Of course, I understand. But you feel my hair is coming back?”
“I think so,” the barber reassured. The barber carefully restored the dyed hair, strand by strand. He hastily pocketed one $100 note the bald man discreetly held out.
He then turned to the man with the white-coated face. He removed the cucumber slices and sponged off the coating. The man in the seat must have been past 60. His skin was irredeemably wrinkled. “There. Your skin looks glorious.” The barber made a grandiose declaration.
The cropped-hair man was skeptical. “But the crow’s-feet, and the wrinkles around my mouth?”
“Don’t worry, sir. They take time coming, they take time going.”
“My skin specialist has suggested Botox injections. What do you think?” he asked the barber. “No sir.” The barber was emphatic. “That’s for the hopeless. Not for people with radiant skin like you.”
He proceeded to pinch the cheek of his customer and then let the skin go. “Look at the health of your skin. It goes right back to its place. No sir, no Botox for you. You repeat this facial every two weeks. See the effect.”
Another $100 exchanged hands, and the man with the closely cropped hair was gone. The barber cleaned the seat and tapped it. I clambered into it. “You were lying to them, weren’t you?” I finally confronted him, now that we were alone, “No,” he said, without meeting my eyes. “I know you for the last 15 years. You were lying,” I insisted. Seeing my stern glare, he gave in. “Yes, I was.”
“Haven’t you heard of such a thing as professional integrity? You lied for the large tips didn’t you?” I asked with disgust.
He sighed and was silent for a long moment before he answered. “I didn’t lie for the tip. That bald gentleman? He is a cardiac surgeon. Everyday he saves many lives. Who do you think the gentleman with the wrinkled skin was? He was a colonel in the army. He has fought on our borders many times. Again, has saved so many lives. What can a poor barber do? He can only lie.”
在男士们的还没有虚荣心以前，当地的理发店曾是一个令人愉快的热闹地儿。为了避免自己形象蛮昧，理发也就成了每两个月左右就要进行一次的简单仪式。顾客总是羞于盯着镜子审视自己。人们能抽空做的只是偶尔偷偷向镜子里瞄上几眼，以确信自己在经过一番“处理”之后不会像个湿漉漉的耗子一样狼狈不堪。由于理发师给每个人理的发型都一样，那双熟练的手在干活时根本不影响他的思维。于是他就扮演一个健谈风趣的大摆呼。
随着自我陶醉思想的出现，男人们开始异乎寻常地在乎自己的相貌了。如今，他们没有时间和周围的人闲扯。老理发师，一个精明的老板，他把自己的理发店改为一个沙龙，后来又改为一家男士美容店。只有像我这样天真的人还认为男士应该英俊潇洒。
理发师不再指望那双熟练的手来机械地完成那千篇一律的活儿。他仔细留心每一位顾客挑剔的要求。于是，闲聊也没有了，取而代之的是降临到店里那阴森森的寂静，偶尔顾客会问一些臭美的问题，理发师就回答一下。一度撒谎撂屁的当地报纸也消失了。出现了亮皮的电影杂志和时尚杂志，甚至还有瞅一眼就烦的商务杂志。一大堆迷人的化妆品瓶罐取代了简简单单的明矾石。几十年来，在客人的脸颊经受了割刀那一番“血淋淋的”处理之后，明矾石一直扮演者须后膏的角色。
不像以前我什么时候高兴到理发店来就进来的时候了，现在我不需事先给接待员打电话才能定下理发时间。这是一位受雇于我们新近发了迹的理发师的性感尤物。她没有接待任务时，就坐在休息大厅里用锉刀修整指甲。她把老板称为“首席美容师”，而不是“理发师”。
上个月，我进到店里，看见理发师正同时忙着两个活儿。他的助手显然是在休假。一个椅子上坐着一位只有几绺头发横扫他那闪亮秃头的男士。理发师正小心翼翼地为每一绺头发染色。旁边的椅子上坐着剪着短平头的男士。镜子中反射出他的整张脸覆盖着一层白色。当我发现他的双眼处是两片黄瓜片时，着实吓了一跳。我现在可真是明白那个男的正在做所谓的“面摩”。
“让我位这两位绅士做完，”理发师向我大声说。“不着急，”我说。接着就坐下来看乐子。
“头发比上次长了些了，先生”理发师对光头说。“我发现你长出许多新的绒发。”秃头头也不抬地应到，“你推荐的洗头精我定期用。你真看见新发了？”
“那还用说，”理发师斩钉截铁地说。“我干了30年，每次看到长出新发我都看得出来。而且，为你侍弄头发也有20年了。我能看出差别来。洗头精对许多人都起作用，但不是对人人都有效。在你身上，它是管用的。”
秃头脸上浮现出忍俊含笑的表情，而我在一旁一脸狐疑地看着。我不是毛发学家，但我确实明白秃头一根新发也没长出来。
“洗发精好使后，头发生长能有多快？”秃头试探着问道。“先生，你不会相信的，好多人的头发在一点儿希望都没有的时候，突然浓密的头发长了满头，我都害怕他们长成灰熊。”
秃头又是那种忍俊的表情。“但不能保证都会那样，”理发师提醒道。“当然，我明白。你真的觉得我生新发了？”
“我想是的，”理发师再三保证。他仔细地一绺一绺地梳理好染过的头发，便匆匆地把秃头小心翼翼地递过来的一张百元大钞塞进了口袋。
于是他转向做面摩的男子，把黄瓜片取下，再用湿海绵擦去面部的涂层。这位男士看起来有60多岁。他的皮肤已经褶皱得无法复原。“看，你的皮肤看起来光彩照人。”理发师做出了一个夸大其词的评论。
平头男有点儿怀疑。“可那些鱼尾纹，还有嘴边的皱纹呐？”
“别担心，先生。他们会没的，会没的。”
“我的皮肤护理专家建议我注射肉毒杆菌素。你怎么看？”他问道。“不要用。”理发师斩钉截铁地说。“不可救药的人才用那个呢。像你容光焕发的人用不着。”
他继续揉搓后再释放平头的面颊的动作。“看看你健康的皮肤。它又恢复原来的样子了。别用肉毒素，那不适合你。各周做一次面摩，就会见到效果。”
又有一张百元大钞进帐，平头男走了。理发师拍了拍打扫完的座椅，我爬了上去。现在，只有我们两个人，我对他说，“你对他俩扯谎，对不对？”
“没有，”他说，可眼神却躲躲闪闪。“我认识你至少有15年了。你扯谎，”我坚持道�？醋盼壹岫ǖ哪抗�，他泄了气，“嗯，我骗他俩。”
“你不知道职业道德吗？你为了丰厚的小费而撒谎？”我鄙夷地追问道。
他叹了口气，沉默了良久后说，“不是为了小费。那个秃头是谁？你知道吗？他是个心脏外科医生。他每天都拯救许多人的生命。那个皮肤皱巴巴的又是谁？他是一位上校。他曾在边境上参加过多次战斗。同样也救了许多人的性命。一个可怜的理发师能为他们做什么呢？只能扯谎了。”
