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"I killed many Americans during the war," he said softly. "Many Americans." Moments later, I felt the razor on my throat.
“在那场战争中我杀了很多美国人他轻柔地说，“很多。”过了一会儿，我感觉到剃刀压在了我的喉咙上。
Only when the barber had finished shaving my face and was putting away his razor did it seem safe to raise the issue of price again. Years of travel had led me to anticipate this tactic: The merchant insists on an enormous, unmovable price after the service is rendered. But I hesitated bringing up the subject again. The barber seemed to read my mind nevertheless.
当他给我刮完脸，把剃刀拿开之后，我才觉得可以安全地和他讨论价格问题了。多年的旅行使我能够预料到他们的招数：商贩们在服务之后，会要一个谢绝还价的高价。可我犹豫着，不知道是否该继续询问价钱。然而理发师好像看透了我的心思。
"We Vietnamese people are not so direct as you. We are easier in our ways," he said. "For us, it is not so hard to trust."
“我们越南人不像你们那么直接。我们的相处方式更简单。”他说，“对我们来说，信任别人没那么难。”
He pulled out his scissors now.
现在他拿出了剪子。
"So will I like this haircut?" I asked with a conspicuous hint of sarcasm.
“那么我会喜欢你剪的发型吗？”我带着明显的讽刺意味问道。
The barber gave me a bright, scolding laugh, his dark eyes narrowing above wrinkles that suggest he had at least sixty fallen yellow leaves himself.
理发师对我灿烂地笑了，笑意中带着几分责备。他的黑眼睛眯缝起来，聚起一堆皱纹，他至少有六十岁了。
"I, young friend, am a sculptor. Under my hands, rough stone is turned into a beautiful, delicate statue."
“年轻人，我是一个雕塑家呢，在我手下，粗糙的石头会变成精美的雕像。”
"So it's an art form, hair-cutting?" I asked.
“所以理发是一种艺术形式喽？”我问道。
