A Japanese Haircut

My hair has always been a challenge for me. Whether it is long or short, it is not as easy to deal with as some people might thing when they admire my curls. During my seven years in Juneau, I went to a Juneau stylist approximately five times. Usually I saved my hair for Laura, who has been cutting it since I was in middle school. My hair became a source of conversation and a little bit of worry when we began to plan our move to Japan. “Don’t let them touch your hair,” Laura warned. After living here several months, I have to say she had every reason to be cautious. Japanese people certainly have a different idea of what a fashionable hair cut looks like. Many of the “fashionable” men favor the “I just got out of bed,” look. I swear that it looks to me as if it’s not at all uncommon for the edges of people’s hair to have been gone over with thinning scissors. Uneven lines and crazy ponytails are all the rage. So, it was with some trepidation I approached the unavoidable subject of my hair needing a trim. My original plan was to avoid a haircut for two years. Unfortunately, no amount of conditioner on this planet could keep my ends from splitting.

I started, as you might expect, by surveying the heads around me to determine who had the least crazy haircut. This examination let me to my friend Ayaka. With the help of Kurata, I was able to explain to her what I wanted. Too nervous to go to a salon alone, my plan was to accompany, or meet, Ayaka in Asahikawa next time she traveled there for her hair cut. I would be able to explain what sort of cut I was looking for (just a trim!) and she could in turn explain things to her stylist. She seemed flattered that I wanted her help and the reservations were soon made. The plan would be to meet Ayaka and her husband in Asahikawa at 2:00 in the afternoon. Unfortunately, I misunderstood her and thought the map she drew me was to illustrate the location of the salon. It was not. This was to be the pre-determined meeting place. Imagine my surprise when I went to the place marked on her map, only to discover an upsetting lack of hair salons! We stood outside the building, tossing ideas back and forth about how to handle the situation, when, thankfully, Akaya found us and rescued me from certain embarrassment. Aaron and the boys left to go putter around a nearby department store/used bookstore/new bookstore/hundred yen store (it’s a tall building) and I trotted after Akaya and her hubby as they led me to the salon.

The shop was jumping with activity, as it was a Saturday afternoon. It was a very narrow shop, with stools only on one side. To compensate, the salon actually occupied three or more floors. When we entered, Ayaka and her husband were greeted with easy familiarity and there a few moments of excited Japanese as they glanced in my direction. Next thing I knew, I was handing my purse and coat over to the head stylist/owner’s wife, who secured them in a closet. We were taken upstairs and settled into some chairs to wait our turn. A younger man was there, apparently an apprentice. He began washing Mr. Nakamura’s hair (Ayaka’s husband). Ayaka told me he had been working there for six years, since he was 19.

The actual sequence of events would be too tedious to write about in detail, so I will attempt to capture the general feel instead. It seemed that the head stylist would be cutting the hair of all three of us. The younger man worked on Akaya’s color. The odd thing was that all these tasks seemed to happen in an off and on manner. Mr. Nakamura was getting his hair cut while Ayaka waited with wet hair and I got my hair washed. Then I waited as his hair was cut more and Ayaka’s coloring began. Then Ayaka’s coloring was delayed while the young man left to attend to another, unknown task. At one point, Mr. Nakamura was in the chair next to me, seemingly finished with his haircut, but still covered by the drape, while my hair was being fussed with. Then, suddenly, the stylist stepped aside and started the trim Mr. Nakamura’s hair again. It was really quite odd.

There were other oddities as well. The chairs we sat in did not move up or down. Instead, the stylist would sometimes sit in on a wheeled stool, and sometimes kneel on the ground. When washing my hair, I was first covered with a lap blanket (to keep me warm?). Then he covered my face with a small paper while doing the actual washing. During my haircut, the stylist cut for a bit with my hair wet. Then to my amazement, he used the blow dryer on it and cut it for a bit while it was dry. My hair is not meant to be combed while dry. It increases in volume about twenty-fold when it is. I looked like Cousin It from the Adams Family – if Cousin It had stuck his finger in an electrical outlet!

Fortunately, he really did seem to be competent. After assuring himself that all the sides were even and as they should be, he dampened my hair and applied some products to tame it. In the end, I was quite pleased with his job, if not a little surprised at his method. I couldn’t help but sense that my hair was quite unusual for them. There was a distinct sense of novelty surrounding the whole endeavor. Ayaka told me yesterday that the stylist said he wanted to color my hair (he had noticed my highlights growing out) and change my style. I’m afraid he will have to be disappointed, as I’m not letting that happen in a million years. I’m way too protective over my hair.

Here are a couple of pictures I snapped during our trip. The first is an ice sculpture not far from Nishiokoppe. Under the ice is a narrow metal pipe extending all the way to the top. Water is slowly sprayed out, just a little bit. In the summer, we wondered at such a device and were confused about it’s purpose. Once winter arrived and the ice began to form around it, we quickly understood. Since the water is continuously flowing, the shape is always changing.
Ice Sculpture

While stopped at a light, I decided I liked the view of this side street out my window. There’s no special significance other than I liked it.
Narrow Side Street

Starbucks Menu

To and from Asahikawa, we pass a chicken farm. The first few times, we simply stared with idle curiosity at the attached building. We could see a hint of what was inside due to the lights. Finally we stopped in, and now we always stop. They sell fresh eggs from the farm using vending machines!

One machine with eggs
A view from outside