Hair Deposits and Withdrawals

I suppose it was just a matter of time before it happened.  I got AXT today.  This is the gaikokujin (foreigner) HPAC way of saying that one has had a haircut at the salon (by the name of AXT) across the street from the performance hall.  Most likely the tradition of the gaikokujin loyalty to this salon is its proximity, but not far behind (perhaps now in the front running) are the discounts given to HPAC members, the head massages, the end results, the friendly and beautiful staff, and the opportunity to practice Japanese.  Hard to lose.  On the final point, not realizing that the staff explicitly make an effort to help us practice, I was a bit confused by his initial question as he started to cut my hair, "What did you have for dinner?"  Wait, really?  Did you just ask me that?  Could you say that one more time, please?  "Breakfast, food, eat...." he tried to simplify to meet my lack of understanding.  And then I got that we were having a Japanese conversation, and we talked about the Japanese foods that I had eaten and that were delicious and about how I commuted to HPAC, how long I had been in Japan, where I live, etc.  It was engaging in a way that a hair salon conversation has never been before, not necessarily in its content, but certainly in its manner.  He continued to chat while blow-drying my hair and the white noise in my already scant comprehension increased dramatically.  Another question to let go.  Oh and I part my hair on the other side, on the left, I said.  He quickly switched it over, made a few snips, and escorted me to the register, holding the door for me on the way out amidst a chorus of arigatous.

Emboldened with this Japanese speaking practice, I went to retrieve my bow from getting a rehair (kind of like it's own little salon).  The woman there spoke no English but was incredibly friendly, especially so when I returned later that evening having misplaced a small chipped piece of the bow.  In my confusion over where this part of the bow had resettled itself in the universe, there was little that we could communicate to one another, other than her telling me (and me understanding!) that I should look again in the area where I had used the bow that afternoon.  Our personnel manager acted as translator over the phone to help us, but in the end we were alone with our goodwill in a room on the 23rd floor of a window-walled apartment building.  As I turned to go, she playfully put her hands on my shoulders and shook me a little.  It was such a friendly gesture.  I'll remember it with the beautiful view and the diminishing worry of not knowing where a small, inconsequential part of my bow might be.