The whole point of lying around a little seaside town is to slow down time. You walk, not drive. Pause, not rush. You eat breakfast when it's 10 or 3:15. You wake at 6 a.m. and can't sleep any more and are surprised how long the day has been by the time evening rolls around. Still more hours left to... to... well, the rest of the evening hasn't been planned and will just happen when it happens.
The sign is small, tattered, understated and dryly funny. "We repair homemade haircuts." It evokes the picture of a little boy dragged into the shop, placed on a board across the arms of a barber chair, and coaxed to undergo the rhythmic snip snipping of a simple tool in the hands of a dignified and attentive provider of an unhurried and useful service that human beings endure and sometimes even enjoy as their minds wander, their bodies relax and their sentences roll on into the soft summer nights.