2007-11-09 - 3:16 p.m.
Wow, that's really annoying to do, Shuhei observes as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror diligently working on my highlights.
At first, I don't know what to say, which gives the appalled look appearing on my face an opportunity to communicate for me.
I'm sincerely offended by what Shuhei's just said.
And I can't remember another time in which Shuhei has simply offended me. We've had more than a few arguments by this point, and he has pissed me off plenty during the course of a few of those, but never before, as far as I can recall, has he said something that offended me, pure and simple.
And I can't believe that it's happening now over something so preposterously trivial.
First of all, standing in the bathroom in my underwear (a precaution against staining my clothing with accidently dripped dye) with all my tools laid out (a paintbrush, strips of aluminum foil in a variety of widths and lengths, a small saucerful of freshly mixed dye, a glass of red wine, with T Rex playing for good measure) I mean, this is my idea of a good time. That should be obvious.
Secondly, everytime I do this I estimate that I'm saving Team Numasawa between sixty and eighty dollars. Go me!
And another thing, I do really, really good job of my own hair. And I take a great deal of pride in this. It is a little annoying that we don't have a three-way mirror, and that I have to use a little handheld mirror to check on the bits at the back. But this minor feat of contortion only makes me that much more proud of the results. And in the case of today, I'm not actually making any new highlights, but rather, touching up the roots and trimming the (inevitably) damaged ends of preexisting ones. Would a professional hairdresser go to these lengths of care? I think not.
I explain all of this. I hope that I'm doing so with a sense of playfulness, rather than hysteria, though I suspect that I'm demonstrating signs of both. And Shuhei is made to agree, later also upon the fact that I've done a good job.
***********
Standing in the parking lot with my bicycle, I realize that I could have planned my day better.
And this day's plans were:
1. Buy liquour.
2. Pick up some more birth control pills.**
(I've already admitted that, inexplicably, I've found myself able to get fewer things done in one day than I was at one time able to. This is probably a good example of what I mean by that. I think I might also have made a batch of pumpkin soup this day, but I'm not really sure...)
And now, having arrived at the Ladies Clinic (you have to go to the girl's-only doctor to get The Pill in Japan), I realize that I need to make a choice.
Do I leave my clinking bottles of delicious liquor in the basket, or take them in with me?
It's true, people don't steal here like they do back home, but liquor with an unattended bicycle? That's called asking for it.
On the other hand, I feel like bringing them in with me would be in poor taste. My experience with coming to this clinic is that I'm the only person who does so with the purpose of not making babies. Everytime I've been here nearly every other woman in the waiting room has been very pregnant. Frankly, they make me a little uncomfortable. But that's my problem, and also exactly why I'm here.
I don't want to be a mom.
But bringing three large bottles of liquor with me into this place seems like a way-over-the-top and completely uncalled-for declaration of this.
But, then again, this is my life, and these are my choices, and I don't have to justify them for unknown passers-by.
(Such are the thoughts that I allow to circulate as I recognize how upsetting it would be if someone stole my booze while I was away, and decide to take it with me.)
Inside the clinic, I do, unsurprisingly, feel as though I'm raising eyebrows. Whether it's because I'm the only white girl, the only woman over 5'8, the only woman who isn't pregnant, the only woman who jokes with the staff (to compensate for conspicuous language skills), or the only woman carrying liquor, I can't be sure.
I tell myself that the other women are just studying my hair-do as I sit down with a magazine for what experience tells me will be a ten to fifteen minute wait.
The clinic is, it seems, now able to do utrasounds in 4-D. (That is, 3-D in real time.) The pictures of fetuses on the walls proudly advertising this remind me of little aliens. They remind me of aliens even more than the two dimensional pictures that I've seen do. (Again, this is my problem, and I'm not asking for anybody to agree with me.)
Ultrasounds in 4-D... I'm reminded of a feature that I recently saw on TV for a place, I have idea what they called it, where rich women in Tokyo can go to give birth in a spa-like setting. A five day stay includes meals prepared by a staff of professional chefs (in consultation with a nutritionist), massages, unlimited time-killing at the salon and, of course, the birth, for five thousand dollars.
Such extravagancy helps me to feel much better about any irreverence that my liquor and I may be implying.
** For anyone interested on the subject, I can't remember where I read this, and therefore hold minimal responsibility for the validity of this information, but appearently, birth control pills (AKA, the best invention of the twentieth century) were finally legalized in Japan after the government here promptly approved the sale of Viagara, which gave women the opportunity to point out how stupid it was that birth control pills still weren't available based on the dubious argument that they might have different side-effects for Japanese women than for Western ones. And thus, it was that Japanese law-makers approved the sale of The Pill.
************
I'm listening to some sort of avant-garde radio broadcast.
One guest is not a musical act, but rather, a woman who has been invited to the show to read excepts from her sexual memoirs.
It's embarassing to listen to, not because of the content, but because this woman is clearly convinced that what she is doing is art.
I try not to form nasty opinions about this woman too early, reminding myself that some people come from strict religious backgrounds, or have other excuses for being this kind of attention-seeking and trite beyond their teenage years.
Then one episode mentions having taken place on her 35th birthday, and I have no choice but to write this Nicole Panter off entirely.**
By now, though, I'm enthralled. I'm enthralled because I can't wait to hear what the host, a man who I assume to be of sound intelligence and good-taste, will say at the end. Surely, he must have a good deal of input towards determining who his guests are, he probably invites them himself, and thus, in the interest of being able to secure future guests, won't be able to say anything too antagonizing. But, at the same time, how could he resist letting this woman get away with her stale attempt at shock-inducing, cutting-edge without at least a little derision?
I get the impression that Nicole expects her audience will be very impressed with the cool, distant gaze that she is able to apply in describing her own sexual history. And the settings change often. Paris, New York, beside a road, in a car. Despite the ho-hum tone that Nicole is very competently maintaining, I can tell that she's quite proud of this as well.
I can't wait until she finally wraps up.
And then she does.
I imagine the radio host's brain has been whirring this whole time. What will he say? How does one affably debase such a montrosity as the monologue that has just been delivered?
"Oh, so then, you've had sex?"
Brilliant.
I could not be more satisfied with any other response. (Though if anybody can think of one, ELOFTING@HOTMAIL.COM is eager to hear it.)
But then, at the same time, while communicating with Shuhei lost its biggest challenges a long time ago I know that, at our current skill levels, I could not in a million years explain to him why what that radio host said is so exceptionally clever.
And stuff like that makes me feel a little sad sometimes.
** Having since done a little research, it turns out that Nicole Panter was a creator and co-writer of Pee Wee's Playhouse, which means that I may or may not be way out-of-line with my preceding criticism... You be the judge.
