Jodie in Tokyo

It’s all about the chewing gum

Getting a haircut in a country where you don’t speak the language can be tricky. Actually, getting the haircut is not that tricky, but getting the haircut you want is another thing altogether.

Luckily I’m not overly precious about my hair, but when I moved here my more established Tokyo girlfriends hooked me up with Lincoln, a Brit who services the gaijin over at Toni & Guy. He’s lovely and I always get treated like a queen there. At the front desk there are two, sometimes three, people to welcome you, take your coat, compliment you on your outfit and whisper into their headset that another valued customer has arrived. Other people wearing headsets appear like ninjas, escort you to your seat and do their utmost to make you comfortable. They’ve never offered me a glass of wine though, I must say, and often by the time I make it to the hairdresser I need a drink more than a haircut. I usually go there on date night when Michael is out of town. That means I am: A) more stressed than normal and B) not getting out much.

Anyway, despite the absence of alcohol, I usually feel (and hopefully look) better by the time I swan out an hour later. Lincoln does the cut and can translate my instructions to the colourist, no problem. Michael’s not really a Toni & Guy kind of guy, so he generally drops into a local barber (any local barber, not just ours) and has had some interesting experiences. The first time, he didn’t know what he was in for and when the lady asked him questions in Japanese he just generally replied with a ‘Yes’. Soon, his head was snapped back for a wet shave, followed by a swift trim of any visible facial hair, as well as some that wasn’t.

After I stopped laughing at this story, I began to wonder what to do about Eamon and Curtis; the number three shave I’d given them in Australia was growing into a number eight or nine by this stage and my clippers wouldn’t work because of the different voltage here.

We pass a local barber shop on the way to the metro station, so I started taking more notice of what went on in there, without being too conspicuous. It was old-school, with decor unchanged since the 70s and a stripey pole outside. Inside, two older Japanese men held court behind the big old barber chairs, while one even older guy watched daytime soap operas on a portable TV.

Visiting this barber shop has become one of my favourite things to do in Tokyo. At first I brought along a book to read while I waited, but ended up spending the entire time standing up, following proceedings with a huge grin on my face. These three men have been working in this shop seven days-a-week since time began. They barely speak to one another, but work as a finely tuned machine. One’s fast, one’s slow and the other watches TV. Every so often, he shuffles over to the broom, sweeps up, then resumes his position. The system works perfectly.

Eamon and Curtis are particular about their hair and we’ve had to bargain Eamon down from a full-blown mohawk to a regular David Beckham-style one. Once, we showed the barber a picture of Beckham to give him the idea, and now they just say ‘Beckham!’ every time we show up at the door. When we go there, the boys speed off ahead and are in their seats, gowned-up, by the time I’ve managed to park my bike. Last time we went, I asked if we could take some photos:

Yes, if you look closely, that white stuff you see is shaving cream – from their necks, around and above the ears and to the side of the face. As calmly as possible I tell them, ‘Sit still boys, don’t move, don’t sneeze, don’t even breathe.’ And for once they co-operate, perhaps because they know not to mess with a man holding a blade, but also because they get chewing gum at the end. A whole packet. Each.

Every time we leave the barber shop, I love Tokyo just that little bit more. The boys, of course, couldn’t care less. Far from being a unique cultural experience, to them, it’s all about the chewing gum.

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