[He takes up a back number of “Punch,” and reads the advertisements with deep interest.  Meanwhile, the Loquacious Assistant has bowed out the Sympathetic Customer, and touched a bell.  A Saturnine Assistant appears, still masticating bread-and-butter.  The Second Customer removes his hat, revealing a denuded crown, and thereby causing surprise and a distinct increase of complacency in the Grizzled Gentleman, who submits himself to the Loquacious Assistant.  The Bald Customer sinks resignedly into the chair indicated by the Saturnine Operator, feeling apologetic and conscious that he is not affording a fair scope for that gentleman’s professional talent.  The other Assistant appears to take a reflected pride in his subject.

The Loq.  Ass. (to the Grizzled Customer).  Remarkable how some parties do keep their ’air, Sir!  Now yours—­(with a disparaging glance at the Bald Customer’s image in the mirror)—­yours grows quite remarkable strong.  Do you use anythink for it now?

The Gr.  C. Not I. Leave that to those who are not so well protected!

The Loq.  Ass. I was on’y wondering if you’d been applying our Rosicrucian Stimulant, Sir, that’s all.  There’s the gentleman next door to here—­a chemist, he is—­and if you’ll believe me, he was gettin’ as bald as a robin, and he’d only tried it a fortnight when his ’ed come out all over brustles!

The Gr.  C. Brussels, what? Sprouts, eh?

The Loq.  Ass. Hee-hee! no, Sir, brustles like on a brush.  But you can afford to ’ave your laugh, Sir!

The Sat.  Ass. (to the Bald Customer, with withering deference).  Much off, Sir?

The B.C. (weakly thinking to propitiate by making light of his infirmity).  Well, there isn’t much on, is there?

The S.A. (taking a mean advantage).  Well, Sir, it wouldn’t be a very long job numberin’ all the ’airs on your ’ed, cert’nly! (Severely, as one reproaching him for carelessness.) You ’ave been losin’ your ’air!  Puts me in mind of what the poet says in ’Amlet.  “Oh, what a fallin’ off!” if you’ll excuse me, Sir!

The B.C. (with a sensitive squirm).  Oh, don’t apologise—­I’m used to it, you know!

The S.A. Ah, Sir, they do say the wind’s tempered to the shorn lamb so as he can’t see ’imself as other’s see ’im.  But what you ought to ’ave is a little toopy.  Make ’em so as you couldn’t tell it from natural ’air nowadays!

    [The Bald Customer feebly declines this meretricious
    adornment.

The Loq.  Ass. (to his subject).  Know Mr. PARIS PATTERTON of the Proscenium Theatre, Sir?  ’E’s ’ad to call in our Guv’nor, Sir.  ’Is ‘air’s comin, off, Sir, dreadful, Sir.  The Guv’nor’s been tryin’ a noo wash on his ’ed.