Now this in itself was annoyin’, but the haircut in conjunction with the uniforms which was foisted off on us bordered on bein’ intolerable. For those of youse which are fortunate enough not to have viewed the Possiltum army uniforms first hand, they consist of somethin’ like a shortsleeved flannel nightshirt, which is worn under a combination breastplate and skirt made of hardened leather. That’s right, a skirt. At least, I can’t think of any other way to describe a bunch of leather strips hangin’ down to about knee length with no semblance of legs built in. As a final insult, we was each issued a pair of sandals, which to my opinion did not even come close to replacin’ the spiffy wing-tipped black and white shoes I normally favor.
The overall impression of our trainin’ group once we had been shorn and uniformed, was that we looked like a pack of half-dressed department store mannequins waitin’ to be fitted for wigs.
“Nunzio,” I sez, surveyin’ the damage what has been done to my hitherto head-turnin’ image, “tell me again about how nothin’ is too desperate when it comes to guardin’ the Boss or carryin’ out his orders.”
Now, this is a mistake. While my cousin is a first-rate partner when it comes to rough and tumble, lurkin’ in the depths of his sordid resume is the fact that he did time as a schoolteacher for a while, and the lingerin’ effect of that experience is that he has a tendency to deliver lectures on nearly any subject at the drop of a hat or a straight-type line.
“You just don’t understand the psychology involved in converting civilians to soldiers, Guido,” he sez in that squeaky voice of his that can be so irritatin’ at times … like now. “Hair styles, like fashions in clothing, are distinctive marks of one’s previous social and financial standing. The whole idea of the haircuts and uniforms is to reduce everyone to a common denominator, as well as giving them a traumatic, but harmless, experience to share, thereby encouraging bonding.”