every day

taco desu

Getting a ahaircut in Japan

So today I tested my nihongo skills to the max by going for a haircut!
It was made slightly less scary by the fact that the hairdresser is in my group of friends from the cafe, and booking an appointment was just a matter of texting her. However, she still doesn't speak any english.

Terrified of walking out with a Japanese super-cool-but-not-really-my-thing mushroom cut, I looked up a few haircut related words and took a picture.

And this is where it got good.

Firstly, the salon was the most beautiful hairdressers ever! To enter, you must walk past a burgundy and white mural and down a tiny garden path. Inside was a polished wooden floor, cream floral panels on the wall and vases spilling over with orchids. I was led to a vintage armchair to talk over my cut (aka show the picture), then led to the sink for my hairwash.

Whilst my hair always feels great after being washed at the hairdressers, its always a little uncomfortable, what with the cold porcelain of the sink digging into your kneck and the awkward eyecontact with your stylist. I wasnt particularly excited, therefore; how wrong I was!

I was given a cusion to rest my hands on, which made me feel like a princess waiting to look over some new jewels or something. If that wasn't fancy enough, a hot towel was placed over my face - eye contact n o p r o b l e m o! And that isnt even the best bit. The chair reclined ALL OF THE WAY BACK. I was basically having my hair washed in bed. (Also my ears washed, a bit more bizzarely). Super, super relaxing.

The cut itself was great, and after, because she was my friend, and because she knew I had to tie my hair up for work, and because she liked playing with hair that wasnt japanese, my stylist fishtail braided it into a way fancier version of my usual 'forgot to brush my hair in time' bun! I wish she could do that every morning!

After everything was finished, came my absolute favourite part. The free neck and shoulder massage.

If you went to an onsen and then for a haircut, youve had a diy spa for half the price!

Price wise, all of this extra special treatment is the equivalent of a wet cut, no blowdry at an inexpensive salon back home. Plus, if you were visiting, and didnt get paid in yen, it would be about a tenner for the most relaxing cut of your life... if youre visiting japan i reccomend a good cut! Plus youll truly understand why the japanese are always getting their hair done.

One day

One day I will be able to sing great songs in both english and japanese

あとで、 わたし も えご と にほんご の ゆうめい うた できます。

awabi あわび

Today I ate this fish

it was like a muscle but more buttery and tender but way more salty
and it looks a bit like a pussy

dear the lady who shouted 'gaijin' at me thinking i wouldnt understand

you need to choose a lipstick that matches your skin tone

I'm all for chatting with customers but...

Today, an Aussie opened his conversation complaining about the soft, white, Japanese excuse for bread. He then said that he had stocked up on porridge oats when he found them in Kyoto, because they were the only thing he has found that keeps him regular.

I mean, ew.

Shinro Ohtake シンロ オタケ 酸

Last night an artist  came to the cafe. He was given all sorts of celebrity treatment, which is funny because if some pop culture goddess like Beyonce turned up they would so be treated like the rest of the base tourists we serve.

Personally, I didn't stick around for the celebrity fanfare because
1. It meant I had to work harder and later
and
2. Because, of all the artists displayed on Naoshima, I  like Ohtake's the least.

But I do like the art onsen. Then again, its much easier to appreciate an artwork when the alternative is to stare at naked old ladies washing each other.

Our trip to Kii-Katsuura, Wakayama

The slowest train ever named ‘express’ brings you into Kii-katsuura station. A quaint costal journey, with window facing seats (for the sea view) and the noise of old people, muttering general dissatisfactions.

                Our young couple had checked in, and bathed together, before deciding to venture on a stroll around the headland. Before alighting upon any pleasure beach, they came upon a café, overlooking a building site; for what they did not know.

“Maybe it’s for a new hotel” he conjectured, although they had passed a huge abandoned hotel previously, its tattered curtains gazing limply through the broken windows. “Whatever it is, it will ruin the café’s view”. Turning their attention back to the café, they noticed something odd in the cliff face behind it. Two little doors cut into the rock. Front doors. And a window. A little house nestles into the domineering stone. She remarked that it was like a real life hobbit hole. However, they didn’t have long to contemplate it, as a man cycling past them caught their attention. Grasped tightly in his left hand, a whole squid glistened, its tentacles flapping in the wind. 

                                     

                The scenery of Katsuura, Wakayama, is dramatic to say the least. Huge cliffs tumble into the Pacific Ocean, red veins of copper snaking up their sheer sides. The sea is crystal clear, and gets deep quickly. The seaside town which was once bustling and colourful has now, like most seaside towns, fallen into that melancholic state between effervescence and disrepair. One small tuna fishery is the face of the town, but quickly gives way to a much larger port, disused and rusting. 

              

   Our protagonists had reached this point as the sunlight began to fade. Three large hawks were perched on an abandoned crane. The largest of the three, probably a female, unfurled its lengthy wingspan and soared, in a dive then an arch. We stopped to watch, as the hawks circled in the sky above us.

                Turning our heads back to the path, a pair of glowing eyes looked up to greet us. “Neko-chan—“ I started and then trailed off. Seemingly from nowhere had appeared, maybe 15, feral cats. Sitting on cars and boats, lobster pots and boxes, they glared like statues. We hurried past, worried we had lingered too long on their turf. A little further ahead we stopped for breath. We were searching the azure waters for fish, when, deep in the waters, we noticed the skeletal remains of a rusty bicycle. 

 

                As we observed this, some clockwork chimes sounded. A childish melody, like that of an ice cream van, or a child’s wind-up toy.  The wind picked up, and tickled at our necks. The music stopped playing as suddenly as it had begun. It was time, then, for us to return to our hotel. As we navigated our way back, the town speaker crackled into action, announcing something in distorted, echoing Japanese.

                We arrived at our hotel, and the one member of staff who still wore a kimono welcomed us back. We sat down to dine, in a restaurant where the piano played itself.  

because who said conbini breakfast could dissapoint?

Bright pink croissants available at a familymart near you