He peered at
"A hair comb,
somebody," he said. He held out his hand behind him, blindly, as he
continued looking into the mirror, and someone slapped a comb into his palm as
one might supply a busy surgeon.
He moved the comb
through his short brush, flicking at some wayward tuft, until Dundee approached
with the foul protector and the boxing gloves, new and gum-red from their
Ali balked at the
protector. "I'm not wearin' that thing," he said. A chorus of dismay
rose from around the room. "Just try it on and see," someone urged.
Sulkily, Ali skinned out of his trunks and shimmied the protector up over his
thighs. He pulled the trunks back over them. A babble of voices rose.
Ali began some
knee bends, hands out, and every time he came up above the level of the
dressing tables he turned to look at himself in the mirrors. Then he stood up
and slapped at his trunks disgustedly.
"Where are my
trunks look just boss."
trim, champ, slim and trim."