I had just taken a seat when a rather plain, middle-aged hairstylist approached me and asked with a shy smile,
“So, how would you like your hair today?”
I hadn’t requested anyone specific, so he must’ve been the one who happened to be free.
“Just keep the current shape,” I said, “but trim about three centimeters.”
I’ve never once walked out of a salon with the haircut I actually wanted.
So I keep my instructions simple, always managing expectations.
He nodded gently, then began cutting.
His hands moved with quiet confidence—sectioning, snipping, and smoothing—each movement clean and rhythmic.
No unnecessary small talk, no forced smiles. Just the soft sound of scissors and a quiet focus.
“All done,” he said, holding up the mirror to show the back.
It looked shorter than I expected. A bit too short.
Something about it felt off, and as I paid, I was already regretting it.
Ah… another disappointment, I thought. Another haircut that missed the mark.
But once I got home, I stood in front of the mirror again.
“Huh… actually?”
The shape was beautiful.
Even the short back curved naturally, giving my head a soft silhouette.
I ran my fingers through the strands—light, smooth, not too thick, not too flat. It moved well. It felt right.
The sweetest surprise came when my husband got home that day.
“You got a haircut?” he asked.
He almost never notices things like that.
But this time, he looked straight at me and said, “It looks great on you.”
I told him everything—about the quiet man who’d cut my hair with such unexpected skill.
“There was this totally unassuming guy,” I said, “and honestly, I didn’t expect much, but…”
My husband listened, then nodded with a grin.
“I’m getting my haircut there too.”
That weekend, we went together. My husband asked for M by name.
“My wife said there’s an amazing stylist here. I had to see for myself,” he said.
M looked caught off guard, smiling modestly.
“Are you sure you want me to do it?” he asked.
Once in the chair, my sociable husband struck up conversation like he always does.
M opened up easily—he lived nearby, used to have long hair that reached his shoulders, and had a soft spot for good drinks.
It was around the time Ryuichi Sakamoto had passed away, and his photos were everywhere.
“Can you give me a haircut like his?” my husband asked.
M studied my husband’s hair—stubborn and difficult—and somehow, still managed to pull it off.
It wasn’t just close. It worked. My husband loved it.
From that day forward, we were regulars.
M’s cuts were unlike any we’d had before.
Light, yet precise. Effortless, but lasting.
Weeks later, our hair still behaved. It still felt good.
It’s hard to explain, but his touch just stayed with you.
Every two months, we’d go back.
Through those visits, we learned M came from a long line of hairstylists—his mother, his sister, even his grandfather.
They’d once run a family salon, but times had changed.
Cheaper chain salons took over, and they had to close.
That’s how M ended up working part-time at the place we found him.
“No wonder your cuts are so good,” I told him once.
He laughed quietly.
“I still have a lot to learn.”
But as summer turned to autumn, something changed.
M’s schedule got sparse.
His mother was sick, we heard, and he was spending more time caring for her.
We decided to wait.
When Christmas music began playing in the salon, I finally tried to book him again.
But the receptionist paused, avoiding my eyes.
“Actually… M left last month. He had some health issues.”
My husband and I exchanged startled glances.
Not wanting to leave without a cut, we agreed to let another stylist take care of us.
“Could you try to follow the way M used to cut our hair?” we asked.
The stylist nodded politely and did their best.
But it wasn’t the same.
As we stepped out onto the street, I turned to my husband.
“Do you think M felt awkward about working fewer hours?”
“Maybe,” he said. “He was taking more weekends off, wasn’t he?”
Every time we drove past the salon, we found ourselves wondering,
“I hope M’s okay. If he’s cutting hair somewhere else, we should go.”
The last time M cut my hair was in late October.
I remember him joking with us—talking about investing in semiconductor stocks, because he’d heard they were going to skyrocket.
We laughed at how hopeful he sounded.
And when the Nikkei stock index hit record highs not long after, we thought of him again.
“Maybe M really did buy those stocks,” we said, half-joking.
Then, one quiet Sunday morning after the New Year, my husband asked,
“Want to go get a haircut?”
“Not today,” I said. “It just doesn’t feel right without M.”
So he went alone.
When he came back, his expression had changed.
“M passed away,” he said.
“What? How?” I asked. The words barely formed in my mouth.
He explained quietly.
“When he left the salon, he left his belongings behind. The staff called his family.
They said he passed away suddenly last month. A chronic illness, they think.”
We sat there, stunned.
It didn’t feel real.
But in my mind, I could already see him—his shy smile, his careful hands, the way he always cut just right.
I had finally found a hairstylist I could trust.
And just like that, he was gone.
I wish I had known his full name.
I wish I could visit his grave.
M, you were a legend to me.
For the first time in my life, I spent an entire year feeling truly good about my hair.
You gave me that.
Thank you. And goodbye.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re enjoying a good drink.
Until we meet again.