Last night my crazy landlord came home drunk and insisted I shave his head. I did my best to dissuade him. Eventually, after saying no repeatedly, I ran upstairs and hid in my room.
I emerged about a half an hour later to the sounds of an electric razor. The crazed fiend had attacked his own head without benefit of a mirror or any sense of balance or fine motor control. The plug for the razor was held into the socket by a mess of masking tape. He was naked from the waist up. One arm of his shirt dangled in the toilet bowl, and most of his head was a field of stubble with several mutant looking tufts spurting out of his skull.
He seemed proud of his handiwork nonetheless and I agreed to tame the mutant tufts. Truth be told, if I had known he was just going to raze it down to a short short bristle and no naked blades would be involved, I would have succumbed to his demands much sooner. I had envisioned a terrible business involving straight razors and shrieking and ears left on the bathroom floor. As it was, except for the continual swaying, it was a fairly straightforward job.
He has yet to arise this morning so I don't know whether he is happy with last night's sudden coiffure change. I hope so.