"Extras" lay upon vacant seats and showed from the pockets of hanging coats.
There was a loud chatter between the practitioners and their recumbent patients, a vocal charivari which stopped abruptly as Sheridan opened the door.

His name seemed to fizz in the air like the last sputtering of a firework; the barbers stopped shaving and clipping; lathered men turned their prostrate heads to stare, and there was a moment of amazing silence in the shop.
The head barber, nearest the door, stood like a barber in a tableau.

His left hand held stretched between thumb and forefinger an elastic section of his helpless customer's cheek, while his right hand hung poised above it, the razor motionless.

And then, roused from trance by the door's closing, he accepted the fact of Sheridan's presence.

The barber remembered that there are no circumstances in life--or just after it--under which a man does not need to be shaved.
He stepped forward, profoundly grave.