Halim shaved every morning, an indispensable rite, impervious to the day’s schedule. Going out or staying home made no difference to the process. When, for some reason, he did not shave, his hands could not stop touching his face, and he experienced guilt. The hairs on his chin seemed to grow within minutes, and twenty-four hours was a long wait he endured, quietly tormented, for the coming morning would renew that amazing pleasure with a meticulous shave.
The evening’s gentleman’s toiletry was an option too, but it was not proper to shave at night! Why so, the man did not know, but hearing the warning from so many and so often, he really had no doubt on its forbidding reasons. The toes and fingernails belonged to the same category as the hair, all to be trimmed ‘only’ during the day. Though, there was a discrepancy in the rule.
When the day was gone and darkness had fallen, and few clients walked in so late, he often visited the barbershop just before closing time. By all indicators, this was at night, especially in winter, but the people had not slept yet, so, technically, one could call it “not-night.” Justified by this loophole, Halim considered an evening visit to the barber’s shop a day’s pleasure.
The morning’s routine, with its indulgent self-centered attention, invigorated him and helped him feel young and full of life. Retired early, long ago, in his fifties, now seventy, Halim still hunted for “jobs” to occupy his day. The ex-army officer hated wasting time, unlike most of his friends who spent their days in front of a shop or in the neighborhood cafes, discussing the unstable political situation.
After washing off bits of shaving foam left in stripes by the Bic, he spread after-shave cream on his face, sensing his skin soft and fresh. That exalted feeling overwhelmed his senses. He finished the ritual by checking himself in the mirror, and finding nothing wanting, walked to the bedroom to get dressed.
The white shirt, ironed the night before, hung on a doorknob of the wardrobe. A ray of the rising sun had found its way into the room from a crack in the curtains, shimmering like snow on the shirt’s bright white cotton. He unhooked the garment with care and slipped his arms into the sleeves. The crisp fabric rubbed against his new undershirt, causing a barely audible sound, arousing him with the same goosebumps and pleasurable discomfort he experienced every time he dressed in uniform.
The already knotted tie slid cautiously toward his neck, not to ruin his perfectly combed hair. Unhurriedly, he tucked the noose under the straight collar, making sure the inch-wide red fabric was pushed up and invisible. Finishing with a sigh and standing at attention, he found himself pleased with his reflection in the mirror.
The tie was old, bought 20 or so years ago. He took proper care of the fake silk fabric, for he felt particularly well wearing it, pulled tight and completely isolating his neck. Only then did he grow comfortable, warm.
He was expected at his new job at nine o’clock. Even though it was not permanent, just a few days replacing a sick friend in a slot-machine bar near the new maternity hospital, Halim could not allow himself to be late and taken for a fool.
With all he needed on him, wallet, wristwatch, he left the apartment, put on the grey jacket, and locked the door. Having lived in that building for so long, he always tied his shoes outside, placing his foot on the third step of the stairs to the above floor, conveniently positioned next to his door. With that last task done, reassuring himself that everything conformed to his standards, he took the descending stairs toward the exit, where he nearly always exchanged pleasantries with neighbours hanging out in the courtyard.
The “casino” was not far from his home, maybe a ten-minute walk, and calculating that, he had time. He took it slowly, walking with the same pace and tenure he had in the good old days when he went to his office in the Ministry of Defence. “A gentleman needs so very little to hold his tenure,” he whispered to himself, stepping firmly on the concrete stairs. Before touching the pavement of the next floor, his legs failed to keep him standing, and he died.
