Carlton here with something that maybe would better be listed in Joe’s “Funky Fridays” list.

A couple of days ago I indulged in one of my favorite male only pleasures, something that cannot be gender-appropriated— a close shave with a straight razor at the hands of a skilled lady barber.

My current severe underemployment no longer makes it necessary for me to be clean shaven every day so I let my beard hang out over a week or more, and unlike the hair on my head, it grows thick and fast and rather tough. When the slow growing head hair is finally in need of trimming and it coincides with a beard that would require 2-3 disposable razors to dispose of, I head on down to CHICAGO, a youngish mom and pop hair salon in downtown Kumamoto that has been in business for over 40 years to get properly shorn.

There the 40ish lady who knows me pampers me in the chair and relieves me of the hirsuteness above the neck. She scissor cuts my head hair and then washes it and then as it dries she reclines me in the chair and positions a steam generator beside me and begins to anoint my face and beard with mysterious oils and a succession of hot towels. Then she lathers up a portion of my face at a time and with deft strokes of her blade slides the beard off to oblivion.

There’s something a bit titillating perhaps about offering one’s head into the care of a stranger (one whose ancestors were the enemies of my ancestors) who then fills her hands with knife-through-hot-butter-sharp cutting and slicing tools positioning them just millimeters away from one’s softest vulnerabilities. The eyes, the ears, the upraised exposed throat..my God what irrevocable damage could be done in an instant with a slight flurry of minimal muscular movements. Talk about trust.

And she is diligent too. She goes back over my facial and neck skin pinching it to force the follicles to open further and then cuts again even closer.

Then when she is satisfied that she has put her mark on what is truly clean shaven, there’s another round of hot towels and ointments as she finishes up taking care of errant hair in my eyebrows, ears, and nose.

At last the final towel is removed and I am elevated upright in the chair to stare in the mirror at a baby’s behind bedecked with eyes, nose, and mouth. It’s a pink revelation after the ‘before’ image that was what I last saw. And it is so refreshing and comfortable. I’m offered a cup of iced lemon tea and then I’m on my way not needing to shave again by myself for another 2 full days.

I told her I’d be back probably at the end of September. It’s kind of addictive, maybe the beauty care equivalent of eating fugu sashimi.