The Vizier and the barber
There was a poor old man who by working very hard and with great skill became one day the barber to the Sultan of Marrakech. This barber was greatly admired by the Sultan, who trusted him as if he were his own brother. Now whenever the Sultan went out to take a walk in the city, he would pass by a shop and was amazed to see that it was empty. There were no goods in it, but the shopkeeper sat cross-legged like a fakir on the counter as if he was waiting for new customers to arrive. One day the Sultan called one of his guards, and asked him what this strange shopkeeper could be selling. ‘My master wants to know,’ asked the soldier, ‘what you sell here. Tell me the truth. I suspect that you don’t sell anything, and are not a real shopkeeper at all. I bet you go out at night to rob and cut people's throats.’
‘Tell your master,’ replied the shopkeeper showing not the slightest trace of anxiety, ‘that I sell words.’ So the guard went back to the palace and told the Sultan that the shopkeeper sold words. ‘Ask him the price of his words,’ said the Sultan. So again the guard went back to see the shopkeeper. ‘I sell them,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘for a hundred pieces of gold per portion.’ When the soldier related this to his sovereign, the Sultan called for his purse and counted out a hundred pieces of gold, and told his servant to buy him a portion. When the soldier gave the money to the shopkeeper he counted it carefully and put it in his satchel. ‘Tell our lord,’ said the shopkeeper, 'never act in haste; think first.’So the soldier returned to the Sultan and gave him the portion of words which he had bought. The Sultan was so pleased with his purchase that he ordered it to be inscribed everywhere in the royal palace. It was written on the marble floor and on tiled mosaics on the walls; it was carved on the fine cedar wood ceilings; it was woven in the thick velvet curtains; it was painted on the dishes; it was even embroidered on the fluffy towels in the baths and bedrooms. Now the Sultan had a Vizier who was jealous of the barber's seemingly exalted position. ‘Even the barber,’ the Vizier said to himself, ‘is favoured more than me. What is to stop the Sultan sending me packing, and making the barber his Vizier instead?’
This seemed very disturbing to the Vizier. He was after all wise and politically astute. He was loved and feared in equal measure by the people of Marrakech even more if truth be told than the Sultan himself. So he hoped that when the Sultan, who was without an heir, died, the people might make him Sultan. So one day the Vizier called the barber as he was leaving the Sultan's Palace. ‘I have often seen you coming and going from shaving his majesty,’ he said, ‘but I have never had the good fortune to see the razor and the scissors that you use. Surely you do not use the same ones for his majesty as you do for commoners?’ ‘No, certainly not,’ said the barber; ‘I keep a special razor and special scissors for the Sultan in a case. They are the best ones I have.’ Opening his fine wooden box, the barber showed the implements to the Vizier who picked them up and looked at them sternly.
‘You should be ashamed to use such an ordinary razor as this on the Sultan’s head?’ ‘Alas,’ replied the barber, ‘I’m a poor man and it’s all I can afford. But it’s a good razor and the best one I have.’ The Vizier put his hand on the barber's shoulder in a warm friendly manner.
‘Come, my friend, this simply will not do. I shall give you a razor with a handle of gold, set with precious stones. It is a razor more worthy of shaving his majesty's head.’ The barber was overcome with gratitude, especially when after a few days the Vizier's gift arrived. He put it in his case for the next time he went to shave the Sultan. Now the barber worked in a very methodical and particular way and when the Sultan came for his shave the barber first laid out his tools on a velvet cushion so they were easy to reach. Then the Sultan's personal slaves tied a towel round their master’s neck. After this the barber worked some soap with his fingers into his ruler’s hair. As he was soaping the Sultan's head, the Sultan's eyes were caught by the magnificent new razor. But the barber's own eyes were caught by the words embroidered on the towel round the Sultan's neck: 'Never act in haste; think first.' As his fingers were rubbing the Sultan's scalp, the barber began to murmur these words aloud.
'Never act in haste; think first.'
The barber deliberately left the gold razor lying on the velvet cushion, and picked up the old one to shave the Sultan. ‘Tell me,’ said the Sultan, ‘why don't you use that fine new razor?’ ‘Wait a minute,’ said the barber, who was an artist and concentrating on his work, ‘wait until I’ve finished.’ The Sultan went quiet and in silence the barber finished his task. ‘My only reason,’ he said at last, ‘was this. It’s true that I brought the new razor to shave your head. But I read the words embroidered on your towel, and I thought, 'why should I make any change? The old razor is a good one and I know it. But the new one is unfamiliar to me.' ‘So how did you find this new razor?’ asked the Sultan. The barber told him the whole story. ‘Ah I see,’ said the Sultan, stroking his newly fashioned beard. Clapping his hands suddenly, a slave appeared. ‘Call the Vizier,’ said the Sultan. The slave ran to the Vizier's house and in a short time the Vizier was standing in front of his master. ‘I think,’ said the Sultan peering closely at the Vizier's face, ‘I think, my friend, you need a shave.’ ‘Of course my lord,’ replied the Vizier; ‘whatever you say is true. But I had a shave only this very morning.’ ‘Never mind,’ said the Sultan, ‘I still think you need a shave, and my friend here will do it.’ So the Vizier sat down before his master, the slaves put a towel round his neck and the barber soaped his head. When all was ready, the barber picked up his trusted old blade with which to shave the Vizier. ‘No!’ shouted the Sultan, ‘my Vizier thought that old razor was not good enough to shave my head, and he gave you that shiny new one instead, with its handle of gold, encrusted with diamonds. Now I also say that old blade is not worthy to shave the head of so faithful a subject. Take the new razor.’ The barber shaved the Vizier as his master had instructed and doing this, he made a small scratch on the Vizier's scalp. Hardly had it happened when the Vizier was seized with the most awful shakes, spasms and paroxysms, and after spluttering about in his chair, like a prisoner being tortured, he breathed his last. The blade of that razor was poisoned. The Sultan promoted the barber to the position of Vizier.
‘When I paid a hundred pieces of gold for those words,’ he told his courtiers, ‘you laughed because you considered them expensive. But now it seems to me I bought them very cheaply.’
© 2025 Richard Hamilton