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.
* * * * * * *
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.
“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?)
“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.
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...)
“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.
No comments:
Post a Comment