How a Black Man Gets a Hair Cut in Japan.

I’ve been going to the same barber in Osaka since 1991. As a fresh-off-the-boat “gaijin”, I recall the day I cautiously poked my head inside the entrance to this storefront parlor just across the way from my weekly mansion.

The shop was wedged between a locksmith and a newspaper delivery vendor, all which composed the ground floor of this scruffy-looking, two story, apartment complex built in the 1970‘s, considered a relic by modernJapanese standards.

Inside, were well-worn magazines - a faded blend of manga, nude woman and cigarette ads - that were piled in uneven stacks beneath a wooden, two-tiered coffee table. The dingy smell of tobacco lingered, turning the once sparkling wallpaper into various shades of yellow and brown. Near the entrance hung a huge poster showcasing rows and rows of Japanese squires, modeling hairstyles that offered an even further glimpse into a fashionable period long gone by.

As I walked in, I nervously took a seat while the barber remained crouched over his client like a praying mantis. I was scarcely acknowledged as words between the Master and I remained unspoken, and I soon found myself confused by the whole process of getting a simple trim in this strange new land.

But alas. I was grateful just to get my black ass in the door, as every barber uptown would shoo me away before I even made it through the threshold. It wasn’t particularly because I was a gaijin, I’d say; but my nappy-hair and darker complexion obviously made them think twice about their current occupation.

As the weeks and months flew by, I returned to my barbers shop often enough to find him sitting there alone reading a newspaper, watching TV, or meditating while sipping hot green tea from a bone tea cup. Sometimes he’d sit across from me and we’d watch TV for a while. As my Japanese slowly improved, small talk ensued.

To my untrained and barbaric ways, I eventually accepted the notion that I was not about to rush into his sanctuary demanding services. Things inside his shop moved slow, as did much of his world, and the fine art of cutting hair was as delicate a process as nature itself.

Doing business with the Japanese, I would learn, is more about building suitable relationships then it is about making money, a concept I'd embrace more and more over the years.

“How’s the weather in America?” he would ask occasionally.

Simple questions sometime deserve simple answers. About as simple as a haircut in old-skool Japan anyway.