A Cloyce shave

When me Pops was growing up in the near west side of Detroit, the old neighborhood had a bit of everything in terms of services. There were grocery stores, hardwares, drug stores, and barber shops among others. Dad's favorite barber was on Hamilton Avenue. His barber's least favorite customer was a man I'll call Cloyce, just to give him a name.

The barber hated Cloyce not because of who he was but because of what he had, which was the toughest beard in existence. He was very difficult to shave, and several times a week Cloyce went to the barber for a shave. This was in the days of the straight razor, so that shaving required delicacy. That was fine unless the beard wasn't delicate.

Yet Cloyce seemed oblivious to how hard he was to shave, even though it was no pleasure for him either. One day, me Pops related, he was in the barber shop waiting his turn for a haircut while Cloyce got a shave. Cloyce himself grimaced several times as the barber nicked him regularly despite his best efforts. After a few minutes the job was done, the styptic pencil liberally applied, the ordeal mercifully over for both.

Cloyce got out of the chair and paid, then he asked the barber, "What does one of those straight razors cost?"

"About four bucks," was the reply.

"Here's five," said Cloyce, handing the barber a Lincoln. "Give me that one you just used."

The barber shrugged, took the money, and complied. Cloyce held the razor up to the small crowd in the shop. "Everyone sees that I bought this fair and square. It's mine to do as I like, right?"

There were nodding heads and murmurs of assent. Cloyce then took the razor and snapped it in half. "I don't want anybody to go through what I just went through," he explained as he tossed the broken tool into the trash can. He still had no clue that the fault wasn't the barber's or the razor's but, rather, with nature.