I just paid thirty pounds for a haircut.
Am I angry? Am I confronting the locals at random, demanding in broken Japanese some explanation for the sky-high cost of, well, everything in this country. No. In fact, I haven't felt this good in months. I can't wait for my hair to grow out enough for me to justify coming back.
The Japanese haircut is unlike anything you're likely to find in the U.K (maybe Pakistan, albeit in a different surrounding). As far as I can tell, the Japanese have transformed the relatively mundane business of cutting hair into an art form. In a few broad strokes, it works something like this:
The Preliminaries
Once seated in one of the eight or so Thrones of Pleasure, the customer is greeted by a crack team of uniformed, smiling young women that turn the usual "How do you wannit?" into what seems like the Command and Control center aboard the HMS Elizabeth. They stand at attention, listening intently to your detailed instructions and periodically trumpeting "Hai!" in unison.
Once the specifics of how the next couple of hours will be spent are defined, they disperse in different directions, reappearing moments later with all manner of tools, blankets and assorted gadgets. All but two then depart for the special Deployment Centre located somewhere in the back of building until called into service. The remaining pair begin at once, one busily snipping away at the excess strands of hair, the other standing at the ready, passing tools over from a nearby wheeled cart and saying "Hai!" alot. Should one's plastic Hair Barrier slip even an inch from its moorings on either side of the chair the assistant will rush in, emit a barrage of shiturei itashimasu's (Roughly translated: Oops, how RUDE of me! God! Just shoot me if I screw this up! Gosh I'm sorry!) and return things to their proper place. As quickly as she came she'll return to attention at her station with an audible shhhhwack!. This lasts for maybe an hour, or until all offending hairs have been lovingly snipped and carted off...
The Really Good Stuff
At this point the team members call in the Shampoo Expert, who appears at your side as if teleported there and then begins deftly manipulating the drawers and panels of the mahoghany bureau before you to reveal (gasp!) a wash basin. She and the assistant (Hai!) set about protecting your shirt and collar region with an elaborate system of towels, clips, and rivets.
Once prepared to brave the water, you are invited to lean forward in your chair and endure the many and varied pleasures of The Wash. In my case, I suffered perhaps seven separate scrub cycles: Shampoo, Shampoo II, Conditioner, Really Good-Smelling Stuff, Scalp Prep, Super Tingly Scalp Treatment, Rinse, Rinse The Rinse Out Rinse, etc. etc. At some point I think I passed out, but was revived by a pair of firm hands massaging my back and shoulders, and another toweling off my soaked noggin. Hauled vertical once again, I was greeted by my dazed and giddy reflection in the mirror. And then the chair dropped backwards...
The Shave
Next, hot towels were brought on a cart and draped carefully across the upper half of my face. Some unseen steam-generating device was then employed to blow hot, moist air on my cheeks and neck. That done, more towels were added until only my nose remained. I dozed.
The towels were gingerly removed, and my face was introduced to hot lather (instant friends, those two) and I fell under the skilled manipulation of a gleaming, gold straight razor. Each area of my face was shaved at least twice, including that bothersome area between the brows, and each instance (yes! more!) was preceded by the gentle application of steaming lather. My facial hair probably won't emerge again for a week or two....
I rose to leave, and as I approached the cash desk, a young woman holds out an open mahogany box filled with assorted cigarettes. I took one, she lit it, I paid my measly thirty pounds and walked out into the night, a chorus of 'arigatou gozaimashita's' echoing in the air of the doorway behind me. The air was cool on the exposed skin around my ears. My scalp was abuzz. My skin was clean and tight.
I rubbed my scalp and thought "Grow, baby, grow."
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One impossibility I've never gotten used to while living here is the way people disregard their surroundings altogether when moving about on foot. Put a Japanese person in a car and he's a absolute robot of subtle awareness, but as soon as those heels hit the pavement, out come the cell phones, Sony PSP’s and manga comics.
