One morning, Randy Waterhouse rises early, takes a long hot shower, plants himself before the mirror of his Manila Hotel suite, and shaves his face bloody. He was thinking of farming this work out to a specialist: the barber in the hotel’s lobby. But this is the first time Randy’s face will be visible in ten years, and Randy wants to be the first person to see it. His heart actually thumps, partly out of primal brute fear of the knife, and partly from the sheer anticipation. It is like the scene in corny old movies where the bandages are finally taken off of the patient’s face, and a mirror proffered.