the close of the operation, when he has laid aside his razor and
is sousing my defenseless features in a liquid that smells and
tastes a good deal like those scented pink blotters they used to
give away at drug-stores to advertise somebody's cologne.

Does the barber respect my wishes in this regard? Certainly not.
He insists on powdering me, either before my eyes or surreptitiously
and in a clandestine manner. If he didn't powder me up he would
lose his sense of self-respect, and probably the union would take
his card away from him. I think there is something in the
constitution and by-laws requiring that I be powdered up. I have
fought the good fight for years, but I'm always powdered. Sometimes
the crafty foe dissembles. He pretends that he is not going to
powder me up. But all of a sudden when my back is turned, as it
were, he grabs up his powder swab and makes a quick swoop upon me
and the hellish deed is done. I should be pleased to hear from
other victims of this practice suggesting any practical relief
short of homicide. I do not wish to kill a barber--there are
several other orders in ahead, referring to the persons I intend
to kill off first--but I may be driven to it.

After he has gashed me casually hither and yen, and sluiced down
my helpless countenance with the carefree abandon of a
livery-stable hand washing off a buggy, and after, as above stated,
he has covered up the traces of his crime with powder, the barber
next takes a towel and folds it over his right hand, as prescribed
in the rules and regulations, and then he dabs me with that towel
on various parts of my face nine hundred and seventy-four--974--
separate and distinct times. I know the exact number of dabs
because I have taken the trouble to keep count. I may be in as