Tokyo Body Shame

Snip! My head suddenly felt a lot lighter. I cringed. How much hair was just taken off the back? I nervously glanced around at the classy Japanese ladies chatting with their stylists. Hopefully, if I just became partially bald someone would have reacted a bit. Geez, what was I doing here anyway? I should have learned by now to avoid language barrier haircuts! But the salon was an air-conditioned refuge from the sticky streets of Tokyo.

“Okay now!” My stylist spun the chair with flourish. “You like?” At first I was stunned: my hair was so short! But it looked good, and kind of edgy, the reverse bob accentuated my cheek bones which were recently made more prominent from the desert survival course. “Thank you!”

“One photo for Facebook?” The stylist picked up a sign with the salon’s name, “Mario Cuts” on it, put her arm around me, and held up the peace symbol for the camera. What the heck. I put the peace sign up too.

Feeling very chic, I stepped out into the crowded streets of Harajuku with a bounce in my step. But then, the humidity assaulted me once more. How could I hide from this heat? A huge shopping mall caught my eye.

Shopping isn't my thing, but the mall was an air-conditioned refuge from the heat. I decided to act interested in clothes to fit in. It wasn’t hard. In the big department store there were booths with crazy mangia clothes- looking like punk 16th century Little-bo-Peeps. I was tempted to play dress up, but then I saw the sign in Japanese with a camera crossed out. If I couldn’t take a picture, what was the point?

The upper floors were filled with streetwear, but the styles were all three years old: like they were designed for toddlers instead of grown women. Bibs, ruffles, ponies and bunnies adorned the pastel clothes. Cute, but not really my style.

I went upstairs and found a stand of all cowboy and Native American-inspired clothing. A dress caught my eye that was a beautiful amalgam of origami-like folds, western fringe, and a tribal pattern. I had to try it on. But all of the sizes were the same. I asked a saleslady which one is my size, she sang out like a Disney princess “the size very big, fit everyone loose!”

I was skeptical, but I took the dress into the fitting room. I stepped into it and began to pull it up. It wouldn't budge. I thrust back and forth trying to angle it past my hips, grunting. No avail. I started hopping on one foot desperately to trying to gain leverage. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. With dismay I saw a body entirely comprised of wobbly bits, my hair silly and disheveled.

I heard the sales ladies laughing and chatting among themselves outside the curtain. They sounded like annoying chipmunks. I couldn't let them see me defeated.

I tried pulling the dress over head. It was a stifling straitjacket. I couldn't bring my arms down! I began to pant in panic. Inch by inch, like a chubby butterfly squeezing out of a chrysalis, I bunched the dress off my arms. I heard more high-pitched laughter. I was covered in sweat and brimming with tears.

Head down, I trudged out of the room.

“Oh, it don’t fit, so sorry,” the lady said with exaggerated regret.

I looked down at her. Her push-up bra made it look like she had two mosquito bites on her chest. “Yep, I couldn’t pull it over my boobs!”

Faking smugness, I left in a huff. Maybe I’m just too 3D for Japanese fashions, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.