and waited for me to begin the ritual of pouring out all the accumulated poisons of the mind.
I peered back at him over my head. He looked tired, and flabby,
and somehow he reminded me of Matt sitting on his barber's chair waiting for customers.
I told Strauss of the association and he nodded and waited.
"Are you waiting for customers?" I asked. "You ought to have this couch designed like a barber's chair."
"Then when you want free association, you could stretch your patient out the way the barber does to lather up his customer,"
"and when the fifty minutes are up, you could tilt the chair forward again and hand him a mirror"
"so he can see what he looks like on the outside after you've shaved his ego."
He said nothing, and while I felt ashamed at the way I was abusing him, I couldn't stop.
"Then your patient could come in at each session and say, 'A little off the top of my anxiety, please,'"
"or 'Don't trim the super-ego too close, if you don't mind,' or he might even come in for an egg shampoo —I mean, ego shampoo."
"Aha! Did you notice that slip of the tongue, doctor? Make a note of it."
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