A Young Greed
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I sit on a hard chair cast in shadow off to the side of the room, watching Mr. Barker attend to his customer. Bits of hair flutter to the ground with each smooth, languid movement from the blade. A blade from a set, a set of beautiful knives meant only for the best of barbers. Never have I seen any barber tend to hair like Mr. Barker. He's an artist, my employer, and his blades, his magnificent blades that glitter and shine like prized jewels, are his tools.
Every day it fascinates me that once Mr. Barker finishes, his customer's flesh is smooth and hairless. Perfect. There is never a distasteful glimpse of stubble in sight, and neither is the man's skin nicked, cut, or raw. Mr. Barker shows his customer a mirror. A small smile on his lips, he asks the customer if he is pleased with his shave. The customer replies yes and grins with pleasure. He pays Mr. Barker and with a tip of his hat, promises to come again.
I immediately leap to my feet and sweep away the hair decorating the floorboards and run a fresh cloth over the chair. Mr. Barker's wife, Lucy, enters with their little girl, Johanna. I don't miss Mr. Barker's face brighten as he goes to embrace them. I may be a young lad that sweeps up hair, but I know that Mr. Barker is the luckiest man in London. He has a wife, a child, and better skill with a knife than any other.
Someday, I will be barber. I will be just as good as Mr. Barker! No, not as good – better! I will cut hair and satisfy every customer. I will have a young serving boy to do chores for me. Most importantly, I will be the most celebrated barber in all of London. All will know my name. I can see it now. I will wear grand clothes, not like the rags I must harness now. The people of London will flock to me eager for my services. My purse will be full and heavy. Rich and fame will be mine, all mine. I will be envied, admired, and respected. This I promise myself. No longer will I be an insignificant servant boy, but a great barber!
I risk a covetous glance at Mr. Barker's blades again after I finish sweeping. They sit propped idly in their case, waiting, beseeching that they be used to do wonders. I make another promise to myself.
Someday, those blades will also be mine.
A/N: So, what do we think? I'm worried that Pirelli might seem a little off...Thoughts and concrit are most welcome.