Page 4 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

I observe a flicker across Desmond’s face. Is it so peculiar for me to decline the customary trim? Do I look so improper already? But before I can think further, the familiar dance resumes. My coat and hat are taken first. Then I’m ushered to my favourite chair, the one with the knick on the left side, sat atop it, and draped in a brilliantly white cloth.

The barber gathers his well-used accoutrements, and I prepare for the time-honoured natter while he whips the soap to a lather.

“Found anything interesting last month?” he asks.

“Not this time, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a proper shame, I say. And with a fellow as adept as you. A real pity.” He nods as if he was an expert in the field himself.

I wonder why he thinks me adept. Even though he’s held my custom for so long, the man hardly knows anything about me at all. Pleasantries, after all, don’t make for riveting and intimate relations.

He tips the chair back until I’m almost horizontal, and after a moment, he approaches with a steaming towel.

This will be hot, I say to myself seconds before he utters the exact same phrase. I close my eyes and welcome the warmth seeping into my skin.

He proceeds with the shave in the usual fashion. As he already knows my preferences, I can relax and listen to the chittering of the other people in the room.

“Have you seen the latest Arbuckle picture?” a man with a deep voice bellows a bit too loudly.

“I’m a Chaplin fan myself. His being from here after all,” another answers.

“Do you like him only because of his fromness or also because he’s amusing?”

“I would say I find him rather funny. I mean, the gags are more to my tastes.”

“I’m an Arbuckle man myself. Always have been, and most likely always will be,” the deep-voiced man says as if he was the centrepiece of the room.

“Very nice. And what was this marvellous picture about?” the Chaplin fan inquires.

“About a nurse. Well, more like a butcher,” he guffaws. “A young new actor. Very funny, and all while splattered in blood.”

An image flashes before me: a handsome face. Strong jaw. Big eyes. A sharp profile. Dark stains litter a white apron. My pulse rises, and I feel my face flush with heat.

I look around, wondering if the men noticed my reaction.

I wish the lather was still covering my face, but the more I think about this man, this actor, the tighter I feel. I try to distract myself. Focus on the blade scratching across my throat. I suppress the urge to swallow. To open my mouth and–

I’m certain they must have noticed. Surely, they are only continuing the conversation until I leave the room, just to jeer at me behind my back. To call me a degenerate. An affront to society.

“All done!”

I flinch at the sudden words. Desmond looks at me, puzzled.

“Are you sure you’d rather have no trim today?” he asks.

I shake my head, suddenly unable to utter a single word. What is the matter with me?

“Are you well, sir? You look like death warmed up.” His hands hover over my shoulder, not yet touching.

“I’m fine,” I finally press out, but my barber doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m very well, thank you,” I add.

Desmond steps back. Without a word, he slides the apron off with expert movements, not a single hair ruffled. Not even my tie made askew.

I stand up and grab my hat and coat with trembling hands.

“Come again soon, Mr. Balfour,” Desmond says in his usual cheery tone after receiving his payment. I nod my agreement, forcing my mouth into a jovial smile, but I know I will never return to this barber again.

I forego my usual stroll through the park. Instead, I hail a motor cab and head straight home without delay. I sit on my hands, hoping this will stop the trembling. I name every passing street silently. Halfway there, my pulse finally slows.