I started reading a novel called Momo by Michael Ende (same person who wrote The Neverending Story). I haven’t finished it, but there’s this little passage that caught me off guard. The story describes a barber in a struggling town:
One such person was Mr. Figaro, the barber. Though not by any means a high-class hairdresser, he was well respected in the neighbourhood. Neither rich nor poor, he owned a small barbershop in the centre of town and employed an apprentice.
One day, Mr. Figaro was standing at the door of his shop waiting for customers. It was the apprentice’s day off, so he was alone. Raindrops were spattering the pavement and the sky was bleak and dreary – as bleak and dreary as Mr. Figaro’s mood.