time passes irrelevantly...

I'm not sure what that means. Anyway, here we are again, back on the digital lifeline. Hmmm, it's a little awkward after so much time to know where to start this update. A lot has happened, probably most of it is ...small, in the scope of things but a little adds up to a lot, as they say. Like two old friends who have a lot to relate but don't know where to begin, I say hello. I'm bad at chronology, mostly because my memory is so damn bad and I tend to focus on the relatively minute and unprofound things...like getting haircuts in Japan...I guess I'll start with something small. Like haircuts in Japan.

I got my hair cut for the second time today. No, what I mean is...Today was the second time I had my hair cut in Japan. Starting out pretty deep, huh? Hold on for the ride, you may fall asleep at the wheel. The name of the place I went to is called 'Sweet.' Yes, Sweet Hair Salon. I showed up without an appointment the first time I went (come to think of it, i've never made an appointment) and with a lot of gesturing, pointing, miming scissors hacking at my head, I managed to convince them to take me on. Now a lot of you might be thinking, okay, so now that you're in the chair and the guy with the scissors is poised, no big deal, read a magazine. That just it. Not being able to explain anything to your artiste du coiffure whatever, french not my forte neither japanese, etc personal hair hacker makes for an excercise in releasing control. I know this sounds so retarded, in fact, I think I may regret that this is the first thing I write about after weeks of no input but on my fingers tap. I just had to trust the guy, smile, nod and try not to worry too much about this superficial thing that I have tied like a cement block to the concept of my identity. Hair. Hair. Hair. Falls to the tiled floor in whirling clouds as 'Hiroshi' expertly drags his blades through my locks with a permanent and tiny smile plastered to his face. What is going through his mind, anyway? His smile freaks me out a little but I can't help but smile too. A tiny plastered smile. We don't say a word to eachother. He massages my scalp with a minty, invigorating oil, seemingly thrilled to do a little dance around me and tousle my hair. I'm not sure why this is so amusing to me. Maybe it's because he does it so damn lovingly. Like my hair is the most important and precious comodity he's ever had the pleasure to play with. Before I'm released from the chair I'me given a neck and shoulder rub, shiatsu style. The way he smackes the top of my head with his palms reminds me of Kendo and that all his hard work is going to be wrapped up under a sweaty 'Men' helmet in but a few hours. He gestures to me that I may rise from the seat by bowing about five times and ushering me to the counter. I'm more than willing to shell out thirty bucks.

Hmm...so how's my hair look, you may be wondering? It's fine, just fine. Not perfect by any means but lovingly crafted by a Japanese man called Hiroshi who, for all the world, loves to cut hair.