The
old negro barber with his curly white head, slave-black face, and large,
shrewd, meditative eyes was standing in a corner with a violin under his
chin, his cheek lovingly resting against it, as he drew his bow through
the last bars of the melody. He had smiled in welcome as Ingolby entered,
instantly rising from his stool, but continuing to play. He would not
have stopped in the middle of a tune for an emperor, and he put Ingolby
higher than an emperor. For one who had been born a slave, and had still
the scars of the overseer's whip on his back, he was very independent. He
cut everybody's hair as he wanted to cut it, trimmed each beard as he
wished to trim it, regardless of its owner's wishes. If there was
dissent, then his customer need not come again, that was all. There were
other barbers in the place, but Berry was the master barber. To have your
head massaged by him was never to be forgotten, especially if you found
your hat too small for your head in the morning. Also he singed the hair
with a skill and care, which had filled many a thinly covered scalp with
luxuriant growth, and his hair-tonic, known as "Smilax," gave a pleasant
odour to every meeting-house or church or public hall where the people
gathered. Berry was an institution even in this new Western town.
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