Fassn throws his hand into the air, bounces on his toes. “Me, me, me!” he says.
Monsieur Montague another elaborate bow and shows him to the central barbery chair. “This is where the magic happens,” he says, beaming. “We will trim and groom, yes? Then you may relax for a soak.”
Fassn hops into the barbery chair, still grinning. Montague prepares his shears while the others lean against the tubs’ edges to watch.
“Er,” says Monsieur Montague as he begins combing the tangled grey tumbleweed that is Fassn’s head. The comb snags again and again, but Fassn doesn’t seem to notice. Montague shoots a placating look at the gang, who stare stone-faced back at him.