THINGS JAPANESE: BARBERS

Taking a few moments off the other day, I decided to get a haircut. Long overdue, I also needed a shave. Now, I don't know how this works in other Asian countries, but in European or perhaps most Western cultures, a barber cuts hair, and shaving is an optional extra. Similarly in Japan. The differences are elsewhere...

The shop that I usually go to has twenty seats, oddly enough numbered one to twenty. As you enter, the chorus of Irasshaimase! rings around, and you are quickly numbered. Sitting down, someone puts a towel around the neck, then a plastic sheet over you, then perhaps more layers of towel and sheet, until you are in a position where an hour of sitting could cause death by heat exhaustion. Hair does not get in however - it doesn't stand a chance (until you stand up of course, when it goes everywhere).

While being swathed in plastic, style is discussed. This person then disappears to embalm the next arrival, and someone completely different arrives to start the questioning all over again, meaning that two people get to experience your linguistic deficiencies when dealing with the intricacies of hairstyles. He then proceeds to chop large amounts of hair off your head in a seemingly random fashion. Having done the lion's share of the work in about thirty seconds flat, this person then proceeds to trim and tidy up over the space of about ten minutes. At the end you realise that you have the universal short hair of everyone else who you saw leaving the production line.

The barber disappears, to be replaced by a young trainee - obviously not safe to be let loose with a pair of shears, he is given a six inch razor instead. Much safer. He might slit your throat by accident, but your hairstyle will not be affected. Soap is liberally applied to your entire face, and covered with towels at approximately 500 degrees centigrade. Outer layers of skin burn away making shaving so much easier. Surprisingly, shaving begins not with the cheeks or sideburns, but with the forehead. An interesting custom, he carefully sculpts your eyebrows into a pleasingly imbalanced form, meaning that you have the choice of a week with plasters over non-existent wounds until they grow back evenly, or shaving them off completely and inventing excuses involving alcohol and malicious friends.

Having safely navigated around your forehead, seemingly having shaved your eyelids, the trainee then moves down to your face. The normal shave then virtually complete, and feeling relieved that you still have your sight and an intact jugular, he begins to shave your earlobes. Why? I was never aware that there were hairs there. I know my grandfather used to have hairy ears, but he has a seventy-year advantage on me. As the razor seemingly scrapes around your eardrum, you are left with the feeling that you will never escape with all your senses intact. Suddenly, it is all over. Another searingly hot towel to burn away any hairs he might have missed, a quick facial massage, and you are out of chair number 14 and onto the cash register in a flash. Wallet emptied, cheered on your way with a barrage of Arigatou gozaimashita! and you are on the pavement outside, counting limbs, checking you still have all your faculties, and looking for a whisky to settle your nerves. One trial over for another month.