At the end of an hour I would wake up regretfully and find my face as smooth and as soft as an infant's.

Departing, I would lift my hands above that barber's head and say, "Heaven bless you, my son!" So we searched high and low, for a matter of two hours, but never a barber-shop could we see.

We saw only wig-making establishments, with shocks of dead and repulsive hair bound upon the heads of painted waxen brigands who stared out from glass boxes upon the passer-by with their stony eyes and scared him with the ghostly white of their countenances.
We shunned these signs for a time, but finally we concluded that the wig-makers must of necessity be the barbers as well, since we could find no single legitimate representative of the fraternity.

We entered and asked, and found that it was even so.
I said I wanted to be shaved.

The barber inquired where my room was.