My hair has never been so long. It makes sense— as I’ve never done many of the things I’m doing now. I had never gut a fish or filleted a squid before coming here. I’d never seen dolphins or arm wrestled coast guards on the linoleum floor of a billiards bars.

Before coming here I’d never driven on the left side of the road, waited for the taxi to open the door, bowed in a supermarket, or received red bean pastries.

I look similar to how I did when I left— except I might be a little bigger. All the carbs loaded in school lunchs fight against the free weights and pick-up soccer games. I think I talk slower here— not just because most of the time it’s in Japanese. But because time is a warm piece of mochi that’s stretching in my hands. Days seem to run different on the island— even if they profess to contain the same amount of hours they did in Portland.

Once every three weeks I look at my hair and hate it. I want to grab an electric razor and shave it all off. But this isn’t like home— so I don’t have a barber’s kit on hand. Nor do I have the triple set of mirrors or compost to toss the hair in (to frighten the rats) at the end. So, it continues on— like a beleaguered pilgrim in search of an undefined sanctuary.

I speak in hand gestures, clicks, whistles, and an odd assortment of other verbal paté. I’d known about some of it— but when you have 250 odd students parroting you in a week, even the densest could pick up some mirroring theory. I had forgotten how much I love a conspiratorial wink— how often my eyebrows raise in question— and the mock pursing of my lips when I’m confronted with goofy behavior before breaking into a grin.

Certain days I get paid to read as I sit at my desk. I thought I’d be constantly rotated through classes— but half a school day sees me sitting in the staff room. I listen in to the gossip and going ons as I figure out the social dynamics in the schools. Most places seem relaxed— occasionally I’ll be prompted by a question or a snack. I’m not used to constantly being plied with chocolate— but it seems like an effective strategy for whatever they’re planning.

The first month I felt foolish as I’d pull my hair into a ponytail or bun. There was something that seemed off about it as I sat in the schools as the only guy with hair this long. Part of me felt like I was overstepping on a possible cultural thing. Not white guy dreads— but it felt in a weird nebulous area considering I grew up learning enough Japanese history. But these fears were dismissed with a casual “no one cares” by a fellow teacher. He gave me a thumbs up and said— you’ve got “cool guy hair- nice!” In a very Ferris Buehler’s Day Off style— it completely different by being on this rural Japanese island.

I’ve thought the same things about my tattoos or outfits— but it always boils back down to— you massively stand out anyway, why would those things make a difference? Which is pretty in line with their Shouganai “eh, can’t be helped” attitude that I think is hilariously endearing most of the time.

I wonder what other new things will happen by the time my hair finally gets cut. Where will the pilgrim find their sanctuary? Is it the fabled Supercuts of Osaka? More likely to be a random side street shop with the rotating red, white, and blue barber pole that advertises all the barbershops without signs. Can’t find the business sign out front? “Shouganai.”