Image for representational purposes.
Credit: iStock Photo
I often return, in the quiet of memory, to a story I read decades ago – a story that pressed deeply upon my conscience and still rests, unbroken, in the chambers of my subconscious. The title of the story is Just Lather, That’s All. Whoever reads it is bound to carry away both its message and its melody of plot.
It is the tale of a barber – a man with a razor in hand and a revolution in his heart. He serves a secret cause, nursing silence in the face of tyranny.
One day, the captain of a military unit – ordered to crush the rebellion – enters the barbershop, calm, unsuspecting, his revolver hanging carelessly on a hook, his beard offered to the blade of the very man who dreams of his death.
As the barber prepares his lather, a storm brews in his mind. The razor trembles between two paths – justice or betrayal, vengeance or vocation. Can a barber cut the throat of the man who sits before him unarmed? Can he kill a customer who comes only seeking the simple ritual of a shave, even if that man is his arch-enemy? Would he not, in that single act, sever his own professional soul?
The moral conflict burns through him; philosophy wrestles with passion until, at last, duty steadies his hand. “All that I can do is apply lather and shave my customer,” he whispers to himself.
When the captain rises to leave, he looks the barber in the eye and says softly, "Killing is not as easy as it seems." Often I wonder: isn’t the work of a teacher like the work of a barber? The barber wields foam and blade; the teacher, blackboard and pencil.
The barber can cut a throat with his razor; the teacher can wound a spirit with his pen. I too once faced such a moment, a razor’s edge of decision. Two scholars in my department forged their signatures in the attendance register so that one might roam free while the other sat confined to class.
I called them to my cabin. I laid before them two paths: confess, admit your fault, tender an unconditional apology – and, as a one-time grace, you shall be forgiven. But if you deny, I shall order an inquiry, and if guilt is proven, your names shall be struck from the rolls of the university. I added gently, yet firmly: “I know the truth already. What you have done is not a small error; it is a crime – a sin against trust.”
They looked at me, realising they had been caught, their courage crumbling. They bowed their heads, admitted their wrong, and pleaded for forgiveness.
And though part of me burnt with anger, longing to punish them, another voice rose within me – the promise I had made, the memory of who I was. I was not a policeman. I was not a soldier. I was simply a teacher.
And so, with the gentleness of lather, I forgave my students.