Butch found it hard to remember how it had all began. Whether it had been the hypnotic effects of the red and white striped pole he could always see twisting from his apartment as a child or if it was the sanitary redolence of the comb jar that wafted deep into his nasal cavity as he sat perched on that cushiony black throne, he no longer knew. However, he did know that Max Fleishman, that gem of a man, had too long been his tonsorial guide through life, twenty-three years to be exact, to think that any two bit butcher with some fancy Matsukas and piece of paper from the health department could do anything to ameliorate the void left by this loss. For Butch, the magnanimity of a coiffeur was a match for that of one’s King, of one’s Emperor; a good tonsor, no, a great tonsor like Max could be nothing less than a life companion, and therefore, in the wake of such a tragedy, the mourning must suffice the grandeur of the man.
Butch blotted his eyes with the monogrammed towel he had planned to present to Max on the thirtieth anniversary of The Chop Shop as he contemplated what could be done to forever illuminate Max as the potentate among tonsorial artists that he was to so many. A statue might be a nice gesture, or maybe a plaque commemorating his accomplishments. As he trudged down Centre St. with his chin buried in the folds of his neck he passed many a head that would never again be touched by the shimmering stainless steel touch of that wrinkled and plump but ever so flawless hand. Butch blotted some more. There had to be something more he could do.
