As the door to the shop swung open, it hit a ribbon upon which were tied little brass bells, jingling pleasantly. The front desk, a tidy affair of polished wood and neat little card-holders and such, was for the moment empty, as were the barber chairs.
"I beg your pardon!" came a voice from the back of the shop. It was distinctly a man's, but smooth and polite. "I will be just a moment!"
Indeed, no more than a few seconds later, a clean-cut young man in a charcoal suit and waistcoat and a crisply starched white shirt came bustling out from the back, his hands clasped together in anticipation of a customer. He wore an easy smile on his face, his features neither too slick nor too homely. He looked like he could have been someone's brother, perhaps.
"I'm so terribly sorry about the delay, madame," he said immediately upon seeing that his customer was a lady. With a brisk step he was behind the desk and in his proper place. "Welcome to C. F. Brinkley's Barber Shop. I am Charles Brinkley, and I would be delighted to be at your service. What can I do for you today?"