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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
44
Men
Who
have
Shaved
Me
A
barber
is
by
nature
and
inclination
a
sport.
He
can
tell
you
at
what
exact
hour
the
ball
game
of
the
day
is
to
begin,
can
foretell
its
issue
without
losing
a
stroke
of
the
razor,
and
can
explain
the
points
of
inferiority
of
all
the
players,
as
compared
with
better
men
that
he
has
personally
seen
elsewhere,
with
the
nicety
of
a
professional.
He
can
do
all
this,
and
then
stuff
the
customer's
mouth
with
a
soap-brush,
and
leave
him
while
he
goes
to
the
other
end
of
the
shop
to
make
a
side
bet
with
one
of
the
other
barbers
on
the
outcome
of
the
Autumn
Handicap.
In
the
barber-shops
they
knew
the
result
of
the
Jeffries-Johnson
prize-fight
long
before
it
happened.
It
is
on
information
of
this
kind
that
they
make
their
living.
The
performance
of
shaving
is
only
incidental
to
it.
Their
real
vocation
in
life
is
imparting
information.
To
the
barber
the
outside
world
is
made
up
of
customers,
who
are
to
be
thrown
into
chairs,
strapped,
manacled,
gagged
with
soap,
and
then
given
such
necessary
information
on
the
athletic
events
of
the
moment
as
will
carry
them
through
the
business
hours
of
the
day
without
open
disgrace.
As
soon
as
the
barber
has
properly
filled
up
the
customer
with
information
of
this
sort,
he
rapidly
removes
his
whiskers
as
a
sign
that
the
man
is
now
fit
to
talk
to,
and
lets
him
out
of
the
chair.
The
public
has
grown
to
understand
the
situation.
Every
reasonable
business
man
is
willing
to
sit
and
wait
half
an
hour
for
a
shave
which
he
could
give
himself
in
three
minutes,
because
he
knows
that
if
he
goes
down
town
without
understanding
exactly
why
Chicago
lost
two
games
straight
he
will
appear
an
ignoramus.
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