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In the days when I had hair, I used to pop down periodically to a local barber’s shop and get a trim. When I lived in my own country, this was rather easy. When I moved to Japan, however, I found that nothing was ever quite so simple.
In my first month in Japan, I had discovered a barber’s shop just around the corner from where I lived. It wasn’t until four months later, when a deeply unfashionable mess had made its home upon my head, that I plucked up the courage to enter.
My skills in the Japanese language were minimal, and so although I knew how to say “just a little”, it was with some trepidation that I stepped through the door. What if he thought, “just a little” meant “just leave a little” instead of “just cut it a little”, and what if he asked me if I was going somewhere nice for my holidays, or if I’d like something for the weekend? These fears were nothing, however, compared to the sight of the person that I was about to entrust to set about my head with sharp implements.
There were no customers in the shop and when I entered, the barber stubbed out his cigarette, wiped his hands upon what looked like a butcher’s apron, and with a worrying, almost leery smile, motioned for me to take a seat.
He stood behind me, and without so much as a word asking what I would like done, pushed my head face down into the sink in front of me.
“Oh Jesus!” I thought, “I’ve walked into a psycho hairdresser’s and the bastard’s trying to drown me.” After a couple of upward thrusts with the back of my head against the palm of his hand, like a woman trying to escape from the crotch of an over-eager gent, I realized that there wasn’t actually any water in the sink, and the man was simply about to wash my hair in a different and slightly more dominant manner than I was used to at home.
Once I’d relaxed somewhat, the barber washed my hair as I remained face down in the sink, and then raised me to a more comfortable position and began to snip away. The cutting was followed by a quick shave of my ears (I didn’t know I needed it!) and a wonderful round of drumming and thumping on my head and shoulders. This massage was all part of the service and more than made up for the unorthodox hair-washing manner.
I paid the man and walked home feeling both relaxed and relieved. All things considered, it had been quite an enjoyable experience. And the cut wasn’t too bad, either. Well, it was as good as one could expect from a barber who had permed his combover.
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