Natsume Soseki - Kusamakura

My rights as a barbershop customer compel me to face a mirror. For some time now, however, I must admit I have felt the urge to forgo this privilege. A mirror fulfil s its al otted purpose only if it has a flat surface that reflects the human face without distortion. If you set up a mirror that fails to meet these requirements and force a man to face it, you are committing wil ful damage to his features quite as much as does the bad photographer. The destruction of a man’s vanity is no doubt a valuable aid to the cultivation of character, but there’s no need to show a man a face that does less than justice to his own, then insult him by asserting that it is himself.

The mirror that I’m at present compel ed to gaze into has been thus insulting me for some considerable time. If I turn to the right, my face is al nose, while the left profile splits my face from mouth to ear. When I raise my head, my features are squashed flat, with an effect reminiscent of looking face-on at a toad. If I lower my face a little, my forehead suddenly towers like some freakish faery child of the long-headed god Fukurokuju.1

So long as I sit before this mirror, I am forced to double as al manner of ghoulish monster. Of course there’s no getting around the fact that my own face is far from a thing of beauty, but the glaring defects of this mirror—its poor color, and the mottled patches of light where the reflective backing has peeled off—surely make it a supremely ugly thing in its own right. Granted that only a fool wil take to heart the abuses heaped on him by an obnoxious child, nevertheless no one enjoys spending any length of time in the presence of the insulting brat.

And it’s not only the mirror; this barber is no ordinary barber, either. When I first peered into the shop, I found him sitting there cross-legged, looking mildly bored, drawing at his long-stemmed pipe and sending a constant stream of smoke over a toy flag set celebrating the Anglo-Japanese Al iance that hung on his wal .2 But now that I’m inside and have entrusted my head to his ministrations, this benign impression has received a shock. He wrenches and mauls so mercilessly, as he scrapes away at the whiskers, that I’m almost at a loss to decide whether I stil hold any right of possession to my own head or whether al such power has now official y passed to him. At this rate, even were my head nailed firmly to my shoulders, it wouldn’t survive intact for long.

During the time he is wielding the razor, this man becomes not barber but barbarian, quite beyond the accepted rules of civilization. Even while the razor is merely going over my cheeks, it rasps and grates; when it sets to work by my ear, the artery in my temple leaps in panic; and as the fearsome blade flashes at my chin, it produces an extraordinary crunching sound, like ice being crushed underfoot. And this is a barber who fancies himself the most consummate in the land!

To top it off, he’s drunk. An odd smel envelops me whenever he drawls his “sirs†at my ear, and from time to time my nostrils are assailed by a peculiar vapor. When and how his razor may slip, and where it wil fly when it does so, only fate can decide. I’m in no position to be able to guess myself, having yielded my face to his ministrations—even he who wields the blade has no clear idea of his razor’s aim, heaven knows. I’ve surrendered myself to him on a mutual understanding, so I don’t intend to complain about the odd nick I might receive, but if matters suddenly took a nasty turn and I were to have my windpipe sliced open, that would be quite another matter.

“Only a greenhorn’d shave this way with soap, but it can’t be helped, with your tough whiskers, sir,†he remarks, tossing the wet bit of soap unceremoniously back onto the shelf. The soap, however, refuses to obey and instead slithers off and tumbles to the ground.

“Haven’t seen you around much, sir,â€​ he continues. “Come here recently, did you?â€​

“Just a couple of days ago.â€​

“That so? Where’re you based?â€​

“I’m staying at Shioda’s.â€​

“A guest there, eh? That’s what I thought. Matter of fact, I’m here thanks to the old gentleman meself. See, he was down the road from me when he was up in Tokyo, that’s how I got to know him. Good fel ow. Knows a thing or two. His lady wife died last year, and he spends al his time messin’ about with his col ection of stuff these days. Got some fantastic things, they say. They’d fetch a fine price if he sold them, the story goes.â€​

“There’s a pretty daughter there too, isn’t there?â€​

“You wanna watch out for her.â€​

“Why so?â€​

“Why? Wel , I shouldn’t be tel in’ tales, but she’s back from a failed marriage, she is.â€​

“Is that so?â€​

“‘That’s so’ to say the least of it! There weren’t no cause for her to come back home real y. She left because the bank went bust and they had to watch their pennies—no sense of duty. Al very wel while the old gentleman’s stil on his pins, but when worse comes to worst, wel , it’l be a bad state of affairs.â€​

“Wil it then?â€​

“’Course it wil . There’s bad blood with the older brother in the main house.â€​

“There’s a main house, is there?â€​

“Main house is up on the hil . Go take a look. Great view up there.â€​

“Hey, a bit more soap there, please. It’s hurting again.â€​

“These whiskers of yours do a lot of hurtin’, I must say. Too tough, that’s their problem. You need to put the razor to these at least once every three days, sir. If you think my shavin’ hurts, you won’t stand a chance with any other barber.â€​

“I’l do that. I could come along every day, if you like.â€​

“You plannin’ on spendin’ that long here, are you? Watch out. Better not. No good wil come of it. You let yourself get hooked by that good-for-nothing girl, there’s no tel in’ what wil happen.â€​

“Why’s that?â€​

“That girl of yours looks good, but she’s a loony.â€​

“Why?â€​

“Why? Look, the whole vil age says she’s crazy.â€​

“There must be some mistake there, surely.â€​

“No, no, there’s more than proof enough. Look, best just drop the idea. Too risky.â€​

“Don’t you worry about me. So what proof is there?â€​

“It’s a weird story. Here, settle down and have a smoke if you like, and I’l tel you. Wash your hair for you?â€​

“No, let’s leave it at that.â€​

“I’l just get rid of the dandruff, eh?â€​

Without further warning, the barber brings ten filthy claws down hard onto my skul and commences to scrape them fiercely back and forth. His nails thrust themselves between every hair on my head, to and fro, with the speed and ferocity of a giant’s rake whirling about over a barren wasteland. I don’t know how many thousands of hairs my head holds, but as his fingers go gouging about, each one of them seems to be being ripped from its roots, and the surface that remains feels as if it’s hatched al over in raised welts. The ferocious energy of those fingers transmits itself down through the skul and rattles my very brains.

“How’s that? Feels pretty good, eh?â€​

“You certainly have astonishing powers.â€​