would gather around out of morbid frivolousness while Bill would shave the victim and carefully explain the use of each part of his face as he held it up so they could see it.
After he graduated out of the nearest exit uncle gave him enough money to open a barber shop. He thought this would keep Bill quiet. It was a good idea, but used cars aren’t the only things that don’t work.
Bill had eighteen chairs in his place, nine to each barber.
That kept both of ’em busy. When they had eighteen customers in there on a Saturday night they would slap hot towels on all their faces and try to scare the whiskers off instead of using hammers or some more civilized system.
Bill would be scalping some bird in Chair One, while another tourist’s face in Chair Eleven would be frying. Whenever he smelled something burning he knew the whole bunch was done and he would turn ’em out like biscuits.
The service wasn’t so good, but it was accurate and fast. And by getting shaved eighteen at a time the customers could get club rates.
