The facial hair makes the man
In the barber's chair sat a man of portly proportion with a head that made his shoulders look too small and eyes that made his face look like it had spent too much time in the vice grips of his grandpa's work shop. He could have been a grandpa himself with his receding hair line and expanding wrinkly forehead. His smooshed up eyes gave him the look of a fertile man, perhaps with fertile offspring. The broad expanse of his cheeks and chin flowed seamlessly into his tree stump neck. It was not so much a jaw but a throat bone, that gyrated with each hardy laugh from the hole in his lower face and upper neck. He had a mustache, a beautiful thick caterpillar mustache that was sucking the rest of his face into its vortex. The lips were long gone and the nose was close behind in the endless consumption. The extremely close eyes were falling into its grasp with every blink. What before appeared as laughter was now obviously the throat bone grasping for air and struggling to break free from the black hole of that fabulous mustache.