A stoutish, broad-shouldered, fair, chubby man, with a short bright
beard and plenteous bright hair! His necktie pleased him; the elegance
of his turned-back wristbands pleased him; and he liked the rich down
on his forearms.
He could not believe that he looked forty-three and a half. And yet
he had recently had an idea of shaving off his beard, partly to defy
time, but partly also (I must admit) because a friend had suggested to
him, wildly, perhaps--that if he dispensed with a beard his hair might
grow more sturdily ... Yes, there was one weak spot in the middle
of the top of his head, where the crop had of late disconcertingly
thinned! The hairdresser had informed him that the symptom
would vanish under electric massage, and that, if he doubted the
_bona-fides_ of hairdressers, any doctor would testify to the value of
electric massage. But now Edward Henry Machin, strangely discouraged,
inexplicably robbed of the zest of existence, decided that it was not
worth while to shave off his beard. Nothing was worth while. If he was
forty-three and a half, he was forty-three and a half! To become bald
was the common lot. Moreover, beardless, he would need the service of
a barber every day. And he was absolutely persuaded that not a barber
worth the name could be found in the Five Towns. He actually went to
Manchester--thirty-six miles--to get his hair cut.
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