The barbershop was crowded when I arrived this morning. Bad luck. It is covered with mirrors, and so I could not but stare at so many ugly men around me. Yuck. Two of them were in the seats already, and three of us were waiting a good portion of the time. There was no-one below sixty around me. The pits. What is worst, I had hard time containing my disgust with all the wishes of the clients. The conceit was simply unbearable. One wanted his thinning hair carefully combed over a bald spot on top of his head while another insisted that all the hairs sticking out of his nose and ears were carefully clipped. The two barbers in the shop catered to their clients’ wishes without a word. Conceit is not to be fooled around with. Although I was close to leaving my place in the queue and returning some other time, in the end I waited for my turn. And then I had to look into my own ugly face and all the folds drooping from my neck. Yuckety yuck. And I am not yet seventy, for crying out loud. As years go by, going to the barber’s will be ever more of an ordeal. As though the morning shave is not enough already.