“Tut, tut! Come quick, help my hair,” a well-built, bald man, aged fifty, hitched up the dirty curtain and stormed into the lean-to, and sat heavily on the lonely rusted wooden chair. He was admiring his look before the cracked mirror, and crooned. He turned his head side to side, and happily twitched a week’s grey beard. The boy just opened the shop and was sweeping the floor. His head spun, and he muttered, “Ugh! The day is lost!” “Why moving lips, my boy? Have you cut tongue with your tiger teeth?” Mr Saputa carelessly asked without turning his head.