A Visit to the hairdresser

Having your hair cut is one of those things in life that combines pleasurable anticipation (of a nice head massage, hair play, having a professional image-maker fussing over you for an hour) with some intrepidation (will I get the look I want? i.e. any look which improves my current bedraggled appearance. Or will I walk out with a mistake?) The stakes are even higher if you can't verbally communicate what you want, not even a 'Stop cutting now!!'
Still, hair must be cut and I wasn't going to let my 3-year-old do it, even though she understands English.
So I paid a visit to 'Produce Beauty of Modern Art (why not go for broke?) at the end of my street. Close enough to the centre of commercial life in my part of town to go out of business if the cuts were that bad (so I figured) and within slingshot of a popular city unversity (with discerning, fashion-hip students as customers, it couldn't be too dire, could it??)
The only one cutting today was Matsui-san, and he looked like hair stylists everywhere (i.e. tousled, in black, funky glasses). Before he could sit me down in one of his revolving chairs, I scooted onto the sofa with a handful of hair magazines and proceeded to leaf through the first one, searching for short styles I like. I'd already decided the safest course of action would be to provide a visual guide before we got going.
Fortunately, I quickly found two or three that passed muster. The only tricky thing was, should I reintroduce the bang/fringe to my life?
It has been more than ten years since I said goodbye to my bang, but recently I seem to have seen it everywhere and my mind was made up when I saw YK's fashion model cousin over New Year with a very definite bang. And she looked very good.
I wanted to ask Matsui-san which of the three styles I had picked out, in his opinion, would suit me best. But this was well beyond my limited Japanese so I let him point to one he liked and nodded. Yes, that would do, I guess. Looked a little bit bowl-shaped, but I would remain open-minded. Experience has taught me that even with English-speaking hairdressers, a proposed style in a magazine can get irretrievably lost in translation.
So I settled down to my favourite part - the shampoo and wash. But this was the first time I had my eyes covered for me by a little piece of thin acrylic. Was this so I wouldn't feel obliged to study my hair stylist's nostrils or armpits (rarely on display in Japan, thank goodness)? Or so that Matsui-san didn't have to watch me watching him?
The normal course of conversation ('Is the water too hot?' 'Conditioner?) was bypassed. Matsui-san asked me something and I grunted in the affirmative (but I had no idea what he'd asked). I was surprised by a hot flannel under my neck and I heard Matsui-san walk away. Suddenly I was panicking. Had I agreed to a colour rinse or deep heat treatment by grunting? I cursed my laziness or cowardice for not seeking more clarity. I promised myself I would never let in happen again. And then he was back, doing a conditioning rinse and towel wrap and I was relieved.
Once in the chair, Matsui-san gallantly tried to establish the tried-and-true 'put the client at ease by talking to them' routine. And I did my best to follow. It's been a year since we came to Japan so I have progressed somewhat. I understood when he asked me how I spent New Year and I could give a short answer (Beppu. Onsen. Husband's family). And I understood he went back to Mie-ken, about two and a half hours by train (3-4 by car) on the 31st of December to see his parents. Then he switched topics and I was lost. He must have asked me what I did all day, because I shook my head and then he resorted to mime - sweeping. I caught 'uchi', and 'kirei'. Cleaning the house. I nodded. Yes, I did that. Sometimes. Desperate to demonstrate that I actually could do more than that, my Japanese clutched at random nouns. 'University. English teacher. From April.' I thought he'd got it. But then he asked if I would be teaching English to little children. I decided to close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of his scissors whisking through my hair.
I opened them again when I heard the sound of the drier. I wanted to glance on the floor and see how much hair lay strewn around. It didn't seem like I'd been sitting there fifteen minutes. Could he really have achieved the look I wanted in such a short space of time?
The shape was good but it looked too sculptural, too flat. 'Flat,' he repeated. I mimed my hair standing on end. 'Yes, I want more volume.' I hoped 'volume' was part of international hairdressing lingo, but his expression neither confirmed nor denied.
Then he nodded and started snipping with razor scissors. I wanted to scream, 'Are you sure?' but I didn't. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I'd wake up when it was all over. Around me I could hear tufts of hair swishing to the ground. Or was it my imagination?
The hair drier brought me to my senses again. He was combing through my hair with the drier and it looked like I was being swept by a Force 10 gale. There was volume there all right.
But I'm not a spring chicken. I know enough to know that what looks great in the hair salon can look sad ten minutes later when I happen to catch sight of myself in a department store mirror. I let him have his fun and when the drier flicks off I shake my head slightly and watch my locks fall into their characteristic position.
'There's the bang here. I'm not sure that looks good. Maybe you could ... ?' He nods and snips a bit. I pray that I'm not going to be left with an annoying bang which pokes at corner of my eye. He keeps snipping. Round the back, the sides. This is starting to look better, I think. But I've lost a lot of hair.
It looks okay. I'm satisfied enough to pay him without feeling I've been stiffed.
And it's only the equivalent of 28 dollars (the cheapest cut and blow dry I've had in a long time and in Japan you don't tip). We say our goodbyes after he stamps my newly-minted loyalty card. He even comes outside the door to see me off and I feel like I have to turn back at least once, to be polite. But it's cold, so I hope he goes back inside. When I turn back again, he's gone.
I go and collect chibbi-chan from kindergarten with my hat on. After all, it's a cold day and I've lost a lot of hair. But later, after we've spent the afternoon together and been in the pool and had dinner, she still hasn't commented on my new cut.
I can relax. It can't be that awful or she'd have said something, surely.