I thought I could make it two months without a haircut, but my hair had different plans. So, I paid a visit to the barber today.

Actually, I paid a visit to a salon. That’s what it billed itself as, at least. Best I could tell, it was just a barber shop with a silly French name. As I would soon learn, however, the service was more than the spinning red, white, and blue pole outside would have you expect.

Peering in the window, the stylists appeared young and aloof, so I figured they’d be delighted to cut my crazy foreign hair. I waltzed in the door, confident and prepared, ready to amaze them with my pidgin Japanese… and promptly found myself completely and utterly lost before the “Irrashimase!” had finished reverberating throughout the room.

“Hajimemashte?” the receptionist asked. Why, yes, this is my first visit. OK, then… time for the dreaded information card. As is typical in Japan, they needed to know everything about me but my shoe size before they could continue. I coughed up my name, address, and telephone number, and proceeded to stare dumbfounded at the remaining mess of numbers and kanji, hoping the receptionist would swoop in and rescue me. And that she did. With a quick, “Daijoubu desu ka?” the card was gone, and I was told to have a seat. In retrospect, seeing as I wouldn’t be a repeat customer, I should have had some fun with the card. Name: Captain Starshine. Address: 3-2-1 Ramalamadingdong-2-chome, Uchikuchi-ku, Ichinisan-shi, Hokutono-ken, Japan. Unfortunately, my brain don’t no work that fast.

Before long, a stylist appeared and ushered me toward the chair of fate. Before my ass hit the leather, he asked what I wanted done. Or, I assume that’s what he asked, as my brain wasn’t quite in “Japanese” gear. It was English loan words to the rescue, as I pointed to the top of my head with a “shorto,” and then the side of my head with a “motto shorto.” This seemed to satisfy him, and he immediately removed my glasses and got to work.

First came the shampoo massage. Yes, massage. Never in my life have I had my head lathered in such an expert and thorough fashion. The massage continued through the rinse. Hell, it continued through the toweling, only pausing briefly as he carefully dried the inside of my ears and my eyes. Then, out came the scissors.

Typically, I keep my hair so short that scissors are unnecessary. A razor with the proper guide attachments gets the job done in a matter of minutes, but the stylist was intent on shaping my hair with nothing but a pair of scissors. Obviously, this took some time, but it was worth it. Without my glasses, I had a difficult time charting his progress as he worked his way about my head. Still, I could feel the attention to detail as he snipped away.

After fifteen minutes of concentrated cutting, he returned my glasses to my head, whipped out a giant mirror, and asked, “Daijoubu desu ka?” I answered in the affirmative, and off came the glasses once again for shampoo massage part deux. Can’t have any loose hair floating around, after all.

After that came the straight razor and electric razor for cleaning up the edges. Then came some sort of oil, carefully massaged into my scalp. The next thing I knew, he was massaging my shoulders. Then my back. Then my temples. Then my head again. Back to my shoulders. Back to my head. The whole thing seemed so silly for some reason - so much that I had to bite my lip to keep from cracking up. Still, with him banging on my head like a taiko drum, I couldn’t help but smile like a dork.

Following the performance, he asked if I wanted a shave. Having already shaved that morning, I waved him off. Did I want it styled? Nope. I’m a wash and wear kind of guy. “Zenzen daijoubu,” I said with a thumbs up.

And that was it.

Of course, such service comes at a price: 3,800 yen ($34 USD). Whatever. It’s a one time experience… even if they did give me a point card on the way out.

Oh, and how does my hair look, you might ask? Not bad, really. It’s a bit longer than usual, but better too long than too short. It’s perhaps a little “high and tight” - such is the Japanese style - so I look a bit like a military guy. Of course, this means that, when walking the street, people will no longer just think I’m out to rob them, but that I’m looking to rape their daughters as well. Oh well. Such is life.

At least I don’t look like Ringo Starr anymore.