He didn't acknowledge me when he entered. I was at my sheepskin, sharpening the best of my blades. And when I recognized him, I began to tremble. But he didn't notice. Pretending that I hadn't either, I continued my sharpening. I tested the blade on the tip of my thumb and turned it to the light. That's when he took off his bullet-trimmed belt from which hung his gun. He put it on one of the closet's hooks and placed his cap on top. He then turned completely, undoing his tie, and said, "It's hot as hell. Give me a shave," and sat down. He had accumulated about four days of facial hair. The four days it took to undertake the last excursion for our men. His face looked sunburnt. I began to carefully prepare the soap. I cut some thin slivers to put in the container and mixed them in the warm water with my brush. As I stirred, it quickly turned to foam. �Those army boys should have beards just like mine.� I continued stirring the froth. �But we did well, as you�ve probably heard. We nabbed the leaders. Some of 'em are still alive but most are already dead. Soon they�ll all be that way.� �How many did you hang?� I asked. �Fourteen. We had to go pretty far to finally find 'em. But now they�re paying for it. Not one�ll be spared. Not one.� He turned back in his chair to see me with the brush in my hand, overflowing with foam. I had forgotten to put on his sheet. Goes to show how truly flustered I was. I got one from a box and tied it around my client�s neck. He hadn�t stopped talking. He had just assumed I was another follower of his regime. �The town must�ve learned their lesson from the other day,� he continued. �Mmhm,� I responded while finishing the knot at the back of his neck. He smelled of sweat. �Pretty good, eh?� �Very,� I answered while retrieving my brush. The man shut his eyes with a tired sigh and waited for the cool caress of the soap. Never had he been so close to me. The day that he ordered the town to parade about the schoolyard to see those four hanged rebels, I had passed by him for an instant. But the sight of mutilated corpses prevented me from getting a better look at the man who had orchestrated it all and who had now fallen into my hands. His face was not unpleasant, actually. And the beard, though it aged him a bit, wasn�t all that bad. His name was Torres. Captain Torres. A man of true imagination. Who else would have thought to strip those four and have a round of target practice on certain parts of their bodies? I started to apply the first layer of soap. He continued on with his eyes shut. �After all that, I earned a little rest,� he said,� but it�s already late and I got a lot to get to.� I took away the brush and assumed an air of disinterest: �Executions?� �A few, but slower this time,� he responded. �Not all of the prisoners?� �No, hardly any.� I restarted my work, lathering his beard. Again, my hands shook. This man just couldn�t find out about me; I had him at an advantage. Ultimately, I preferred that he hadn�t come. Surely many of ours would see him when they came in. And having an enemy in my shop like this meant certain things were expected. I had to shave that beard like any other, neatly, carefully, just like a regular customer�s, making sure that not one pore let out one drop of blood. Making sure that not one tiny wave of hair turned my blade from its course. Making sure that the skin was left clean, polished, unchafed, and when I passed the back of my hand over it, that I would feel skin without one hair. Yes. I was a covert revolutionary, but I was also a barber. One with a conscience and pride in his careful work. And this four-day beard would get a good shave.

I took my razor, opened the handles wide to free the blade, and began shaving the bottom of one sideburn. The blade responded perfectly. The hair wanted to be tough and wild, compact despite its short length. But the skin emerged little by little. The blade made its same old sound as mounds of soap and short spikes of hair grew upon it. I took a moment to clean and sharpen it once more, because I�m a barber that knows how do things right. The man who had so far remained with eyes shut, opened them now and removed a hand from beneath the sheet to feel his face where it had been freed of soap, saying, �Come to the school tonight at six.� �To do the same as yesterday?� I asked, horrified. �Perhaps it will turn out even better,� he returned. �What are you thinking of doing?� �I don�t know quite yet, but we�ll certainly have fun doing it.� He turned back around and closed his eyes. My blade raised, I returned to his side. �You�re planning to punish them all?� I timidly ventured. �Every single one.� The soap had dried on his face. I had to hurry. In the mirror, I saw the street. It was the same as always: the variety store and its two or three shoppers. Then I saw the clock: two-twenty in the afternoon. My blade continued its descent. Now to the other sideburn. His beard, blue and thick. He should have let it grow like some of the poets do, like some of the priests. He should have left it as it was. Many would not recognize him. And all the better for him, I thought, as I continued to smoothly shave that neck. This was where the blade had to be handled with true skill to avoid being immediately tangled among cowlicks. A curly beard. It would cause the tiny pores to open and each would offer its pearl of blood. A good barber like me bases his pride on this never happening to his clients. And this was a first-class client. How many of us had he ordered killed? How many mutilated?...Better not to think on it. Torres didn�t know I was his enemy. He didn�t know and neither did the others. This was to be a secret among only a few, so that I could inform the revolutionaries exactly what Torres had been up to in town and what he planned to do on each new rebel hunt. Still, it was going to be very difficult to explain how I had had him between my hands and had just let him be, alive and well-shaven.

By now, the beard had disappeared completely. He appeared years younger than when he entered. I supposed that this is what always happened to men who enter and leave barber shops. Under the strokes of my razor Torres had been revived, yes he had, because I was a good barber, the best in town, which I could say without a drop of vanity. Just a bit more soap, right here, right under the chin, on the Adam�s apple, on this large vein. How hot it is in here! Torres must be sweating as much as I am. But he�s not scared. He�s a man of serenity, a man that isn�t even thinking on what he�s going to do tonight with the prisoners. And on the other hand, there�s me with this blade in my hands, shaving and shaving this skin, trying to stop the blood from oozing from these pores, watching my every stroke, unable to have that serenity. Damn the hour he entered my shop, because I am a barber but I am not a murderer. And still, how easy it would be to kill him. And he deserves it. Deserves it? Like hell! No one deserves to be sacrificed to turn someone else into a murderer. What do they get out of it? Nothing. More and more will come and the first will kill the second and they will kill the third and it will continue and continue until everything is awash in a sea of blood. I could cut his neck just like that, chop! chop! I wouldn�t give him any time to protest, his closed eyes wouldn�t see the glint of my blade nor the glint in my eyes. But here I am quivering, in true murderer form. That neck�ll spurt a torrent of blood all over the sheet, all over the chair, all over my hands and the floor. I�ll have to shut the door. And the blood would continue flowing over the ground, warm, unstoppable, inerasable, out into the street, a small stream of scarlet. I�m sure that one strong stab, one deep cut, would spare him pain. He wouldn�t suffer. And what would I do with the body? Where would I hide it? I�d have to run away, leave all my things, find refuge far from here, good and far. But they�d search until they got me. �The Murderer of Captain Torres. Slit His Throat While Shaving His Beard: A Grand Cowardice.� And the other side: �Our Avenger. A Man to Remember (and here would go my name). He was the town barber. No one knew that he was a defender of our cause...� And then what? Murderer or hero? The edge of this blade decides my destiny. I could just shift my hand upward a bit, hold the blade a little tighter, and sink it in. His skin would give way like silk, like rubber, like my sheepskin. There�s nothing softer than human flesh with the blood right there, ready to gush forth. A blade like this wouldn�t fail me. It�s the best of my blades. But I don�t want to be a murderer, no sir. You came here so that I could shave you. And I honorably completed my duty...I don�t want to be stained with blood. Just lather, that's all. You�re an executioner and I am nothing more than a barber. And each one in his place. That�s how it is. Each one in his place.

�Thanks,� he said. He went to the closet to retrieve his belt, gun, and cap. I must�ve been very pale and could feel that my shirt was soaked. Torres finished adjusting his buckle, righted the gun in its holster, and, after automatically smoothing his hair, donned his cap. From his pants pocket he took a few coins to pay for my services. He began to walk toward the door. At the threshold he paused a second, and turning to me, said:

�They told me you'd kill me. I came here to see if it was true. But killing isn�t easy. Take it from me.� And he continued out to the street.