Today you are going to go to the barber to get a professional shave. Unfortunately, he has been going mad of late, and he will be convinced that you are the man from the government come to keep tabs on how the emotional manipulation experiment is going.
“I don’t know of any experiment,” you’ll say.
“Then I suppose my wife left me just because she wanted to? It wasn’t so that you could measure the negative effect it would have on me and my well-being.”
His wife left him for you, actually, though he doesn’t know that.
“Prove to me that you’re not from the government,” he’ll say.
“Could a man from the government love your Melissa the way I do?”
Your barber will accidentally slice your neck, not too deep. He’ll back away.
“You,” he’ll say.
“I love your wife,” tell him. “But I love your shaves more.”
Wipe the blood from your neck.
“Finish,” say.
“You trust me not to kill you?” he’ll ask.
“I trust that when that straight-razor is in your hand, all that can come of it is beauty and perfection. I trust that you love your craft, that you love the muse that guides your hand more than you could ever love any earthly woman. I trust that when a man gets up from this chair, he is guaranteed to be more debonair than he ever—“
The barber will slice your neck deep and quiet. Instantly, your torso will be soaked with blood. The blood will pool around and under your belt and it will fall down your legs and drip from your shoes, mixing with the tufts of strange hair on the ground.
Happy The Barber Is Going Mad Day!
