MAN ON EDGE

The beginning of another seizure ramps up and you clamp your teeth together with a snick.  The shakes start to vibrate down your arms and into your hands, but you were stirring up the shaving cream anyways.  It's easy to just fold that physical reaction into the vigorous stirring you were already engaged in.  Lucky break, that.  But you feel the beads of sweat start building up in your hairline, that mustache, the small of your back.  You shrug  tense shoulders under your apron straps, and you can feel how your clothes are already clinging to your back.  Yeah, you're nervous. And why not?  You're a barber.  You're a goddamned barber, and you have the shakes something bad.  How much longer did you think you could get away with this?  Just one more time?  How stupid is that?  These are the fleeting thoughts that you push back, push down deep as you lash the razor against the strap.  This fine gentleman came in for a close shave, and that is what you're gonna give him right?  That's what you tell yourself.  Hold up the blade for a second.  There, see it shimmy?  Nervous yet?  You take a deep, soulful breath and bend down to dress the mans neck in the thick shaving cream.  Careful!  Got some on his shirt.