Close Shave

Old uncle on the No. 67 retained his hair and colour, one thought momentarily. Puce they might call the polo, kinda craggy handsome like in the old Cowboy movies from a couple of generations past. (The routine dyeing in this region brought the realization of what one had received in all the Hollywood product back then.) In the eyes only a local element; chin, brow, cheekbones were all European. What though was the man at there? Arm of a plastic pair of sunnies sharply pointed? Some kind of durable pick attached to key-chain perchance? Levering away, the big paw covered over. It was uncertain. Difficult to tell. Casually casting back two or three times the man was still concentrated at his task. Eventually the glint of polished steel gave the answer. Oh yeah, still at his toilette. What in the blazes was it with that generation shearing their sparse growth one strand at a time with these clippers? Any Chin over sixty you could catch bent to it. Certainly they had nothing there for real razoring; waste of time lathering that was for sure. Gillettes were unprocurable traded commodities like stockings immediately post-war: these chaps were fixed in the privations of their fathers, ancestor worship and all that. Raised red welts and scars failing to heal where ‘ere one turned on the island. The better quality on the shelves were pricey of course and soon blunted. In Euro lands proper better any kind of rusty blade than this bizarre practice. The operations were all done by feeling, mirror no use whatever, you saw the geezers tighten the jaw, twist their lips, start and wince at a pinch. Did they use the same implements on their toes? The long, long plumes grown out of black moles was another thing too, carried proudly aloft like the most elegant banners.