Page 45 of Chains and Vows

Next comes the beard and this is the part I'm most nervous about. But he doesn't shave it. He fades it over my cheeks down to my jaw, then blends it up so it fits in with the hair.

The sculpting is done with scissors, shaping the chin to a soft pointed ducktail.

Hot lather comes next. He paints my neckline, upper cheeks, and throat with the badger-hair brush and then uses a straight razor.

When he's done, he lays me back, presses a steamin' towel over my face, and lets me cook.

After a couple minutes, he sits me back upright and works some paste through the top of my hair with his fingers. Pushin' and shapin' it into place.

He finishes with a dustin’ of powder on my neck, and then the cape is unsnapped and swept away.

"Well," Cash says. And I realize that at some point, he got up and came over to watch. "That'll do, good sir."

There is no bill. No ringing up of anything. No exchange of money. Cash simply says, "Come on, next appointment's up on three."

The barber is already sweeping the floor before we reach the elevator.

Cash pulls the accordion gate open, we step in, he pulls the gate closed, points the lever to the number three on the panel, and we go up to get me some clothes.

"Do I look respectable but still dangerous?" I ask. Grinnin' a little.

"Not yet," Cash says dryly. Then he side-eyes me. "That jacket says 'killer' no matter how you style that hair."

The elevator stops and we repeat our entrance. This time, the room is for tailorin'. I guess. I've never been tailored, but it looks like a place you'd see in the movies where people get this shit done.

Again, Cash does all the talkin'. Somethin' about shirts. Somethin' about jeans. Somethin' about boots.

Now this time, things get interesting. Because the first thing Cash wants to do is talk boots. And he's gettin' money out for this part. Bills. Like hundreds. And he's countin' 'em as the man in the tailor garb describes a line of boots on a counter. There are about six pairs.

The boots on my feet at present are steel-toed greasies and haven't been black for years. So worn, the silver shows.

"What are you?" Cash asks. "A twelve?" He doesn't wait for me to answer. "Let's try eleven and a half."

The boots under discussion are out of my pay range. I've got no idea what I'm lookin' at. But I hear ostrich a couple of times. Alligator, bison, French calf, and elephant.

"Elephant?" I scowl. "I don't wanna wear a fuckin' elephant on my feet."

"Don't worry, those aren't your size," Cash remarks, only half interested in my protest. "Let's pray those full-quill work. Try 'em on."

I just blink at him. "Are you talkin' to me? Because I don't know what the fuck that means."

"These," Cash points to the first pair. "Full-quill ostrich. They're eleven and a half. Shove your feet in. I don't care if they're tight, you'll break 'em in."

Then he unceremoniously hands over a stack of hundreds to the tailor. Something about these boots are different than the barber, but I don't have the formative years of cowboy rules to understand it.

"Well, we don't have all day, Legion," Cash says. "We're on the clock. We gotta get you tailored before eleven thirty."

"Right," I mutter. Then sit down on a bench and pull the boots on. Cash makes me walk around, asks me how they feel—though I don't think he really cares.

After that I am instructed to take them off, put on a pair of jeans that are both stiff and dark, and put the boots back on for the hem adjustments.

I just do what I'm told from here. It takes time so I stand there as shirts appear, and jackets appear, and adjustments are made, while Cash sits by the window, thumbin' through a magazine.

It's not a fun time. I'm bored, I don't like the jeans or the cut of the too-tight shirt, and the jacket is just… not me.

But I don't make a big deal. It's a couple of hours, tops, then I'm back in my regular wardrobe.

I'm only here to look a part, not play one forever.