Sin Den is Like Heaven

Having arrived in Japan three months ago with pixie-short hair, I determined the time had finally come for a professional trim.  Wanting an English-speaking salon within a 30-minute radius of our apartment, I searched the Internet to make a careful selection.  There were three.  (If you have ever experienced this, you understand the degree of trepidation it can produce, for a botched job is broadcast for a long while from atop one's noggin.)    

After doing thorough research, this is how I made my ultimate determination.
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, 
I must choose a cut and blow,  
If it's terrible, it will grow,
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.
 
The appointment was arranged and confirmed via email.  Despite limited options with this fine, short hair, I still hoped to convey a few suggestions before cutting commenced.  Wanted:  Stylish. Sophisticated. Sassy.  So, with this goal in mind, plus GPS and umbrella in hand, I headed into pouring rain.  

After riding a packed subway with face pressed against the door, the real adventure was about to begin.  On the street I hurried through puddles, ran up alleyways, tore around blind corners, and slammed into pedestrians.  Always guided by the shifting blue dot on my screen but rarely looking up.  After a 27-minute rush (with several oops-I'm-headed-the-wrong-way corrections), I arrived at the destination as indicated by Google Map's little "red-rain-drop icon."  But the salon was not there!  Not in a first floor shop, not in a second floor shop, not in an alleyway, not anywhere.  Spotting another hairstylist salon, I popped in to inquire whether perhaps they had changed their name within the past week.  Abandoning a woman in mid-shampoo, the sole stylist scurried over to say in Japanese, "I'm sorry, I speak no English."  And neither did his dripping client.

Next I dropped into a tiny men's clothing store. It was not much bigger than my apartment wardrobe and able to accommodate little more than the skinny-leg jeans in the front display.  Acting very busy and inconvenienced, the lanky French owner said confidently, "You will never find it.  Even the Japanese get lost in this neighborhood looking for my store."  

Shivering from the cold and soaked under my mini Totes, I called the hair salon.  "I am very sorry but I am lost. I have been told that I will never find you so I am going home now."  The voice asked in Japanese-accent English, "Please, ma'am, can you see any stores nearby? Can you tell me, what are their names?"  Seriously?!! There's an infinite number of stores here!!!  And then I remembered the Frenchman's warning.  Not even the Japanese can find his store.  Sensing my hesitation she asked for the name of the largest store sign I could read.  "Diesel," I replied, "D-I-E-S-E-L."   "Oh, brilliant!" she exclaimed, "Stay right where you are; someone will come by shortly to get you."  Momentarily a drenched young man with small stature, small goatee, and small-wheeled bicycle stood before me.  "De-bu-rah, I have come to get you. (bow)" 

Off we went.  Up the hill, around corners, through alleyways, and deep into a residential neighborhood.  I lost all frustration with GPS's failure to locate my destination, dropped sopping items at the door, and sank deeply into the leather recliner for the most relaxing head massage of my life.  I left the shop with little hair and little money but with memories of delightful conversations and pampering that should last another three months.  

The amazing little salon is called Sin Den.  It is a hidden little den. But it really is a little like heaven.