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.”

    在男士們的還沒有虛榮心以前，當地的理發店曾是一個令人愉快的熱鬧地兒。為了避免自己形象蠻昧，理發也就成了每兩個月左右就要進行一次的簡單儀式。顧客總是羞于盯著鏡子審視自己。人們能抽空做的只是偶爾偷偷向鏡子里瞄上幾眼，以確信自己在經過一番“處理”之后不會像個濕漉漉的耗子一樣狼狽不堪。由于理發師給每個人理的發型都一樣，那雙熟練的手在干活時根本不影響他的思維。于是他就扮演一個健談風趣的大擺呼。 
    
    隨著自我陶醉思想的出現，男人們開始異乎尋常地在乎自己的相貌了。如今，他們沒有時間和周圍的人閑扯。老理發師，一個精明的老板，他把自己的理發店改為一個沙龍，后來又改為一家男士美容店。只有像我這樣天真的人還認為男士應該英俊瀟灑。 

    理發師不再指望那雙熟練的手來機械地完成那千篇一律的活兒。他仔細留心每一位顧客挑剔的要求。于是，閑聊也沒有了，取而代之的是降臨到店里那陰森森的寂靜，偶爾顧客會問一些臭美的問題，理發師就回答一下。一度撒謊撂屁的當地報紙也消失了。出現了亮皮的電影雜志和時尚雜志，甚至還有瞅一眼就煩的商務雜志。一大堆迷人的化妝品瓶罐取代了簡簡單單的明礬石。幾十年來，在客人的臉頰經受了割刀那一番“血淋淋的”處理之后，明礬石一直扮演者須后膏的角色。 

    不像以前我什么時候高興到理發店來就進來的時候了，現在我不需事先給接待員打電話才能定下理發時間。這是一位受雇于我們新近發了跡的理發師的性感尤物。她沒有接待任務時，就坐在休息大廳里用銼刀修整指甲。她把老板稱為“首席美容師”，而不是“理發師”。 

    上個月，我進到店里，看見理發師正同時忙著兩個活兒。他的助手顯然是在休假。一個椅子上坐著一位只有幾綹頭發橫掃他那閃亮禿頭的男士。理發師正小心翼翼地為每一綹頭發染色。旁邊的椅子上坐著剪著短平頭的男士。鏡子中反射出他的整張臉覆蓋著一層白色。當我發現他的雙眼處是兩片黃瓜片時，著實嚇了一跳。我現在可真是明白那個男的正在做所謂的“面摩”。 

    “讓我位這兩位紳士做完，”理發師向我大聲說。“不著急，”我說。接著就坐下來看樂子。 

    “頭發比上次長了些了，先生”理發師對光頭說。“我發現你長出許多新的絨發。”禿頭頭也不抬地應到，“你推薦的洗頭精我定期用。你真看見新發了？”

    “那還用說，”理發師斬釘截鐵地說。“我干了30年，每次看到長出新發我都看得出來。而且，為你侍弄頭發也有20年了。我能看出差別來。洗頭精對許多人都起作用，但不是對人人都有效。在你身上，它是管用的。” 

    禿頭臉上浮現出忍俊含笑的表情，而我在一旁一臉狐疑地看著。我不是毛發學家，但我確實明白禿頭一根新發也沒長出來。 

    “洗發精好使后，頭發生長能有多快？”禿頭試探著問道。“先生，你不會相信的，好多人的頭發在一點兒希望都沒有的時候，突然濃密的頭發長了滿頭，我都害怕他們長成灰熊。”

    禿頭又是那種忍俊的表情。“但不能保證都會那樣，”理發師提醒道。“當然，我明白。你真的覺得我生新發了？” 

    “我想是的，”理發師再三保證。他仔細地一綹一綹地梳理好染過的頭發，便匆匆地把禿頭小心翼翼地遞過來的一張百元大鈔塞進了口袋。 

    于是他轉向做面摩的男子，把黃瓜片取下，再用濕海綿擦去面部的涂層。這位男士看起來有60多歲。他的皮膚已經褶皺得無法復原。“看，你的皮膚看起來光彩照人。”理發師做出了一個夸大其詞的評論。 

    平頭男有點兒懷疑。“可那些魚尾紋，還有嘴邊的皺紋吶？” 

    “別擔心，先生。他們會沒的，會沒的。” 

    “我的皮膚護理專家建議我注射肉毒桿菌素。你怎么看？”他問道。“不要用。”理發師斬釘截鐵地說。“不可救藥的人才用那個呢。像你容光煥發的人用不著。” 

    他繼續揉搓后再釋放平頭的面頰的動作。“看看你健康的皮膚。它又恢復原來的樣子了。別用肉毒素，那不適合你。各周做一次面摩，就會見到效果。” 

    又有一張百元大鈔進帳，平頭男走了。理發師拍了拍打掃完的座椅，我爬了上去。現在，只有我們兩個人，我對他說，“你對他倆扯謊，對不對？”

    “沒有，”他說，可眼神卻躲躲閃閃。“我認識你至少有15年了。你扯謊，”我堅持道。看著我堅定的目光，他泄了氣，“嗯，我騙他倆。” 

    “你不知道職業道德嗎？你為了豐厚的小費而撒謊？”我鄙夷地追問道。

    他嘆了口氣，沉默了良久后說，“不是為了小費。那個禿頭是誰？你知道嗎？他是個心臟外科醫生。他每天都拯救許多人的生命。那個皮膚皺巴巴的又是誰？他是一位上校。他曾在邊境上參加過多次戰斗。同樣也救了許多人的性命。一個可憐的理發師能為他們做什么呢？只能扯謊了。”