Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 226, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 September 1914 — FRENCHMAN WONDERS [ARTICLE]

FRENCHMAN WONDERS

ABTONIBHED AT MAGNIFICENCE OF TONSORIAL PARLOR.

Traveler From the Effete Old World Overcome by the Luxury That Surrounds American While He la Being Shaved. »

Last year one of the noted literary lights of Paris visited this country—or, rather, New York, for like many foreigners who “tour America,"' the lure of life in the metropolis proved too strong to allow of further travel and investigation—and this is the way he -describes the joys of an American barber shop. His amazement can be better understood wnen one remembers that the “tonsorial parlors” of Paris are notoriously stuffy and unsanitary. A ceiling and walls of tile, a floor of mosaics, toilette tables of variegated fferhle, %rjnchairs with shining eteel attachments . . . Not a hair, not a speck of dust visible ... a luxury more striking than that of the Theater des Champs Elysees. I seat myself in an armchair which Insinuatingly invites sublime repose. The barber, in spotless white, sur* rounds my neck with Immaculate napkins and then addresses me the word: “Shave." “Yes.” Instantly I feel the chair descending beneath me. The blood rushes to my head and I am not altogether comfortable. But I know that I am in the hands of experts and my tranquillity Is restored. “Manicure?” I raise my head. I see in the neighboring armchair other men in my po•ltjpn before whom are young women who are torturing their fingers with a variety of instruments. I will imitate them. “Yes, manicure." Instantly a slim girl, blonde and Smiling, rolls toward me a little marble table, on which I observe many napkins, many curious instruments of steel and a little bowl for warm water. The young Americaine gently seizes my hand and plunges it into the boiling water. The sensation is disagreeable. “Shine?” ~ This cryptic word I found upon inquiry signified, “Do you want your shoes polished?" The barber for the head; the manicure for the hands; the shiner for the shoes. It is all so logical that I accept. . . . Suddenly I am aroused from my reverie: “Steno?" I'do not understand. Task: “What is steno?" * “A stenographer to whom you dictate your letters." Is it a joke? No, his face is tranquil. Then I reflect; the barber for the head; the manicure for the hands; the shiner for the shoes; a stenographer for the brain. It is all so logical. But, in truth, I should never be able to dictate my correspondence thus surrounded by so many persona bent on beautifying my modest per sop, Besides, what would come next? An oculist for the eyes; a dentist for the teeth; a masseur for the muscles? I feel a vertigo coming on, and I reject the stenographer.