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Updated: June 21, 2025
After a railway journey one needs a bath, a shave, a haircut, a shampoo, a massage, and a complete outfit of fresh clothes before feeling respectable again. In many respects, motoring is more comfortable than railway travel.
After we had treated ourselves to a bath, shave, haircut, and some new clothes we started out to prospect for individual interests, and became separated. Two of the company I have never seen since we parted that afternoon, August 10, 1852. During the preparation of the previous chapters I have once again been twenty-four years old.
"Avery Sutphin," said Johnnie Bones, and the former sheriff, wearing such a haircut as Coldriver seldom saw within its corporate limits, and clothed in such clothing as it had never seen there, was brought through the door by two strangers of official look. He seated himself in the witness chair. "You are Avery Sutphin, former sheriff of this town?" "Yes." "Where do you reside?"
Their appearance as they stood on the shore, sneering at the captain's directions to his men from the superior height of their nautical experience, was warlike in the extreme, although they were clothed in the peaceful overalls and smock of the farmer and also had submitted to a haircut at the earnest instigation of Mrs.
Trelawney that it was madness, and Jeff Thorpe, the barber, had, he admitted, gone home to his dinner, the first day reciprocity was talked of, and said to Mrs. Thorpe that it would simply kill business in the country and introduce a cheap, shoddy, American form of haircut that would render true loyalty impossible. To think that Mrs. Gingham and Mrs. Trelawney and Mrs.
It stops and waits for me at the portal. Probably it converses, on subjects remote from our bodily consciousness, with the immortal souls of barbers, patiently waiting until the barbers finish their morning's work and come out to lunch. Even during the haircut our hair is still growing, never stopping, never at rest, never in a hurry: it grows while we sleep, as was proved by Rip Van Winkle.
Jerry promised, "I'll never eat it again!" The reporter straightened his coat and tie and gave his hatbrim a jaunty flick. "Well, here I go for my haircut. Might as well do something constructive." The crackling, popping, snapping continued unabated. "Listen to it," Rick said hopelessly. Three quarters of an hour later, when Jerry brought the bag back, the Crummies were still crackling happily.
He was frowning, deep in thought, as the pudgy figure of Chow Winkler came into the laboratory. "'Smatter, boss?" the cook inquired cheerfully. "Ain't your ole think box workin' today?" "Doesn't seem to be," Tom confessed. "Give it time, son. Tomorrow's another day," Chow said philosophically. "What you need is a haircut for the square dance." Tom laughed in spite of himself.
The high school teacher Spinoza Spass the clown of the Cafe Kloesschen had wrapped a Siegfried-costume around his belly, and given himself a Goethe haircut. The lyric poet Mueller soon lay like a green, drunken corpse. Kuno Kohn, who had made a formal reconciliation with Schulz, came as himself. Lisel Liblichlein also came with him, wearing a rustic outfit.
I give you my word that if I hadn't been born with my ears set wing and wing like a schooner runnin' afore the wind I'd have been smothered when I put my hat on nothin' but them ears kept it propped up off my nose. YOU remember that haircut, Zoeth. Well, all the time you and me was in Marcellus's settin'-room that stepchild of his just set and looked at my head. Never took her eyes off it.
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