Apologies and Magic Hands

 Let's get right to it. Before I begin my next story, I need to make an apology. While I think most of it was mistranslation, I have offended some of the people that I went to Izakaya with (as detailed in my second blog post.) You guys are amazing people, and you made my night enjoyable. Your company during those hours was priceless, and I wish you nothing but happiness. I hope you could sense how grateful I was and am. I was exhausted beyond belief, so I understand why you would imagine that I had a bad time, but my tired face sat in front of a full soul, and you were part of the source of that fullness. Rock on.

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I haven't written in a while. I think the immensity of this trip is the reason. There is too much to write about, and when I sit down to hash out my thoughts, I get overwhelmed and am unable to pick a topic to speak about. So today I am forcing myself to write (outside of my script!). And so, as I walked out of my first hair-cut appointment, I knew exactly what to say...

My hair was long. Not my grade-seven-flow-down-to-my-shoulders long, but long nonetheless. Summer is here, and when that expression is used by someone living in Japan, think of it as them saying “Hitler has been reincarnated and not only does he still hate Jews, but also everyone else in the world so go inside and never come out.” It's hot here. Mushiatsui. Humid. I take cold showers. The nob doesn't sit nestled closely to “hot”: it dodges that middle grey area completely, too. It is turned completely over to “cold.” My skin sticks to itself... to the air. “July is the killer month”, everyone says. Wait, then what was June?

It's not unbearable (what is?), and one can still enjoy themselves. It's just hot. So the hair had to go. After booking a second interview that will spill over into the multiple-of-hours category for tomorrow, I needed to make sure that my forehead was rid of that nasty layer of hair sweat. I remembered a place that I pass every day on the route I take for my jogs. It looked nice. Like the people who worked there might have gone to hair dressing school. So, after walking to the post-office (the Japanese word for this is fun to say -- “Yuu-bin-kyou-ku”) to withdraw money from the only ATM that is compatible with my debit card, I travelled on over.

The inside was red. Lots of red. There were two people getting their hair cut – one by a woman, and one by a I'm-not-sure-if-that's-a-man-or-a-woman. So there's a clientele. Good. I knew the next part was going to be tough. Be confident. You've been studying like a mad-man, just use all the words you know. You know the word for appointment, so start there.
“Konnichiwa!”
“Oh, uh, hi!” Japanese, idiot! Use Japanese!
I did know the word for appointment, but of course under pressure, it eluded me. “Um... do I need an appointment?”
The lady cocked her head like everyone here does when they don't understand. It's such an innocent, polite gesture, it's impossible to get frustrated. Usually, they also repeat the last word of your sentence as a question.

“Appointment?” she asked.

“Yeah... do I need one, or can I just walk in?” Woooww, Cody. Easy on the English.
“Katto?” (cut?)

“Hai! Hai! Katto!” (yes, yes, cut!)
We worked through things. It would just be a few minute wait. There was a lot of nodding and writing to reach a point of understanding. I asked her how much. Forty-seven dollars. Whoa. I wasn't expecting any less, but she could see the slight shock on my face.
“Daijoubu?” (There's such an amazing inside joke behind this word and an Italian friend of mine. In this context it means “is that okay?”) I paused. I had to be honest with myself. No, no that is not daijoubu. I've really taken pride in my budgeting skills while here and unemployed. Outside of my rent, I've been living on just over 10 bucks a day. That's food, transportation, entertainment, etc. Not easy to do in Japan. So, I had to ask myself: am I willing to spend almost 5 days worth of money on a haircut? I went with my gut.

“Daijoubu desu.” Yes. Yes, that is okay.

The not androgynous stylist brought me to a chair in the back. She sat me down and put a plastic sheet over my body, and then draped a towel over my chest, and the wrapped my neck in a damp cloth. I was ready to be crowned pope.

Now, I should point out that when we established a price, she specifically said “just cut.” So I was assuming that meant... just a cut. No shampoo, no styling, etc.

“Shampuu, daijoubu deska?” (Is shampoo okay?) I didn't know what to say. I had fifteen pounds of fabric sitting on me, and she seemed really eager to lather my hair, so I couldn't refuse. We went ahead with it. It felt good: the water was cold, which I was hoping for. What a good feeling to be refreshed! Even with our language barrier, the woman still tried to make that ubiquitous hair-salon-small-talk. She asked me where I was from, and I successfully answered. You have no idea how happy that makes me. We stumbled through some other questions, and it was here that my weakness became apparent: I am much better at recognizing words/understanding what someone is saying than I am at speaking. In fact, there are times when I know exactly what someone has said, but I am unable to answer or add something to the conversation. If I can form a sentence, it takes me too long to be called anything other than embarrassing. It's such an odd and frustrating feeling. “I understand what you are saying, but I can only sit here and nod because I don't know how to say anything back!!”

We went to the cutting chair. I just made that phrase up... it sounds really cool. I have always found it awkward looking at myself while someone cuts my hair. I usually avert my stare. A different lady unsheathed her scissors: they sat on her waist in a proper holster. A villain brandishing a weapon; an artist guiding their tool. She asked me something that I couldn't understand. I figured it had to do with my hair, so I pulled out a picture that vaguely captured what I was going for. She nodded. The small talk came again, but this time I understood much less. We got through my favourite food, what I studied in school, but then she lost me.

Holy crap she's shaving my head. Well, nothing I can do now. It was just the sides, anyways. As the cutting progressed, I could see my hair becoming very Asian-like. Instead of it fading from short on the sides to long on the top, there was a sudden jump. Short, and then long. Lots of guys my age have that there, and in North America, too, but a bit different. I'm not a fan.
“Sumimesen...” (excuse me...)

“Hai? Daijoubu desu?” (Yes? Everything okay? (I swear, you could get by here just knowing 'daijoubu'.))

Oh boy, this is going to be tough. The words for “short” and “long” are in my study notes, but I couldn't recall them. There was a lot of pointing to get to my point. I started using my fingers as hair to show it going from short to long. Finally it clicked. Daijoubu desu.

The woman was professional. So much so that she had assistants. This wasn't a one-man deal. Another woman stood maybe four feet behind us at a cart full of supplies. The stylist would say a word quietly, and then be handed something immediately. It was like a surgery. Her eyes were resolute and unwavering. My head was her canvas. It was both odd and intriguing. As much as I've been on stage and at times can be a show-off, I don't like being the center of attention in unfamiliar places. Her assistant knew more English than her (a few dozen words as opposed to a few), so she would occasionally tell me what the stylist was trying to say. We established that Hayao Miyazaki is my favourite director. I'm glad they were able to understand that, because he's a really cool dude. We talked about other anime, but I'm not really a big fan, so it was short-lived. Everyone in the studio knew what Gantz was, though, which made me happy. A lot of people assume that because I am North American and came to Japan that I have an undying love for anime. There are particular shows and movies that are brilliant, but for the most part I find the plots in anime to absolutely absurd. (For those of you at home during the summer with some free time, Berserk, Serial Experiments Lain, My Neighbour Totoro, Castle in The Sky, Grave of the Fireflies, and Ponyo are all fantastic series/movies.)

The cut took about twenty minutes. Another assistant (the guy who looked like not a guy) would occasionally walk over and brush off loose hair. It was so funny seeing three people do a job that is done by one in Canada! This wasn't a matter of being lazy, though. The two assistants would always be doing something (whether it be tending to me or not.) It was a matter of allowing the stylist to be totally focused on me. There is never anything implemented in this country that sacrifices quality. If you get something from Japan, or something done in Japan, it will be well done. And that's it.

The cut was over. The she-man asked me to stand. He brought me over to the shampoo chair again. I instantly thought about the price. I don't think I should say yes again... I couldn't say no. He washed my hair again, this time with warmer water. And then he put the shampoo in. Lord have mercy. There was no way I was hiding how I felt. He started massaging my head in the most... perfect way possible. I have never gotten a massage on any part of my body. This is now changing. I can't even describe it. It was like... I can't even! A couple minutes in, while he was doing something with my ears, he leaned over.

“Daijoubu?” I didn't really hear him.

“Hm?”

“Dai-”

“- Ah, daijoubu, daijoubu.” I slipped back into paradise.

And then it was over. We went back into the cutting chair.

“Massage?” He asked me.

“Ah, sugonatta! Arigato.” (Ah, it was amazing. Thank you.)

“Mmm.. Ima?” (Umm, now?) He motioned with his hands. Another one!? YES!

“Hai!”

So this time it was my shoulders and neck. Remember how I was here to get a haircut? The attendants whistled by this way and that, brushing my face, straightening my apron. They spoke to each other in quick, content sentences. Everyone is happy. The guy wrapped my arms around the back of the chair. It was odd at first, but then whatever he did to my biceps made me not care that I looked like a fool.

And finally, the style. I quickly thought about the price, and how it entailed “just cut”, but I didn't care. I was hypnotized. The stylist asked me if I had wax. Then she showed me how to do my hair. “Put this down. Put this up, please.” She spoke as if they were requests. “This is my work, so treat it respectfully.” It was cool to see the pride she had in her work. Finally I was asked to stand from the chair. All the staff (about 6 people) shouted something in unison, I'm guessing to congratulate me on finishing my haircut. I went to the front, ready to pay. The same price that was agreed upon at the beginning sat at the bottom of the bill. 47 dollars. “Just cut” it is said on the side. No mention of the two shampooings or back-to-back massages. Just a cut. But this is Japan for you. I payed, and they thanked me in unison again. I thanked them many times and then walked out. All six of them followed me, shouting thanks as I walked down the street. They stood outside their shop until I was out of their view.

As I turned the corner, I was greeted with the always-welcome smell of the small, ma-and-pa restaurants. Smoke billowed out into the streets, carrying with it the sweet smell of teriyaki, meats, and spices. A firetruck flew past me on the street. It made me think of what it would be like to be a firefighter in Tokyo. An already stressful job, now in a city where not a single street continues at the same angle from more than a 100 meters. The smell caught my attention again. Maybe I'll go inside one of the restaurants, order “just a steak”, and see where that gets me.