The Japanese Haircut

Gone, all gone..my beautiful locks! I feel like Samson only I never had super strength to begin with. What’s up with that story, anyway? What superhero gets his powers from his hair? You get your powers from the sun or from radioactivity or from spider bites also featuring radioactivity or from genetic mutations. Everybody knows that! Nowhere in the annals of DC, Marvel or even Image’dom are we introduced to the Amazing Adventures of Hairman! Marvel as Hairman combats his greatest foe Scissors-D-Lux! So yeah, anyway, I gots me a haircut. I was on the fence, debate…debate…but I thought it was time to slice off the death metal band mop and return to Prep-o-matic Nighthawk (now with 15% more Prep). On yesterday’s walk I discovered a barber shop that didn’t ask for a loony amount of cash to take away pieces of me. Seriously, I’m giving THEM something. They really should pay me…I’d even take it in Barbacide. Today it rained and the rain wasn’t bullshitting. This was rain, man…real buckets, pissing rain, the cats, the dogs, hard rain, black rain, Chocolate rain…RA to the IN. The hotel had complimentary umbrellas and I choose a long black one as it made me more Penguin like. Amply rain protected I set out to get my first haircut in 13 months. I’ve been a bit hesitant in getting the locks chopped in Japan. I mean, hey, what if I misread my translation guide and instead of asking for “short” I proclaim my want for “mohawk”. Suddenly I am in an underground punk-rock band opening for Joan Jett. I don’t think so! Besides, all the places I found except for that one joint in Kashihara were asking over $30 for a haircut and this did not agree with my miserly ways. I could just as well wait to visit Super Sam back in Ottawa for his legendary $8 take it or leave it cut and gab. But the $10 place here in the city was reasonable and it looked pretty reputable…not like some of those train-track-side shops with the bad lighting and rusty scissors. Barber shop quality can be judged by the date of the magazines on the coffee table. If you’re looking at anything prior to the 1970s shelter your head and run! This place had no magazines but it had a clean floor and very high-tech looking chairs. What the hell?!

Inside I was greeted by a young guy with a mop of his own long hair. This guy was styling and lucky for me he would be attending to my head. Style bequeath style, right? I started to take off my coat but before I could get my arms up a woman was already removing it. Japanese customer service at it’s best. I wasn’t even allowed to take off my specs. You half expected these people to lift you up and sit you down but, damn, I had to do that myself. The woman pulled out two small rods from the chair. They looked like controlling levers found in only the best 1950s space movie rockets! Moonmen Barbers and the Alien Wigs Of Venus!!! Oh, wait, they only held up the hair catcher blanket, the fashion accessory of all haircutees. As a point of reference I had brought along a photo of me. It was a photo of me taken about seven years ago but it showed me with short hair…short hair and larger glasses. Earlier that afternoon I had taken care of the Grizzly Adams’esq beard I’d been sporting since December. It was about to be declared a National Park. If I was going to go neat I might as well go all the way. No second basing this one. I showed my Asian Stylist (sounds chic, doesn’t it? Let’s ignore the fact that they are all Asian Stylists here, shall we?) the photo an gestured to the shoulder length mess above my forehead and motioned for it’s removal. He understood, grabbed his scissors and poised himself. No, seriously…he poised himself, striking a pose not unlike a man about to enter into an epic battle of martial arts. Shit, was this guy about to go all judorate on my hair. He moved, I flinched and then he was upon me, scissors cutting in quick snaps. Oh, this guy was good! He didn’t even do the head tilt…you know, that nudging the barbers do when they want to reposition you? He didn’t need to. He just stooped and moved, his scissors seemingly shaping themselves to the contours of my cranium. If Yoda cut hair this is what it would look like. It wasn’t over when I thougth it was over. Usually the end marker of the haircut is the appearance of the back of your head viewing mirror followed by the dust-offer. I began to stand up but was motioned back down and then out came the straight razor. Well, there’s something you won’t see at your local MagicCuts. Not even Super Sam had one of those. I was lathered and then the razor did it’s work removing sideburns and the hairs on the nap of the neck until what remained was smooth. Looking at myself in the mirror I had to say this was quite an amazing haircut. The greatness of it all was only hampered by the revealing that under all that hair was a shitload more gray then I thought. My hair wanted to be 80 before the rest of me. I thanked my Asian Stylist and went to get my coat but the woman who had acted as the assistant (yes, I had two people working on my hair) had the coat for me. She even put it on while the stylist held open the door for me. Man, this is service! We bowed to each other, I thanked them again and outside the first feeling of my missing hair was felt. There was nothing flapping in the wind and whooshing into my face. Another age of the Long Haired Me had passed on. Hard to tell if I will find myself back to that point in hair length again. If the Long Haired Me has been retired being off'ed by Asian Scissorhands was a good way to go out!