The word of the weekend is SHIATSU.
A new girl from Japan is working at the hair salon I visit. She gave me a shampoo that sent me into a universe of bliss that I didn’t even know existed! For ten glorious minutes, I lay there, with my head in the wash basin, as fingers sculpted by God himself turned my scalp into a landscape of deliriously happy nerve endings.
Then, when it was time for the conditioner, she said “Now I’m going to give you some shiatsu massage.” Loaded up with an orange-smelling goo, she placed her hands on the sides of my head, and began to squeeze.
The sound that erupted from my mouth has no dictionary definition. But I’m betting the look of vacant surprise on my face was equivalent to that of a village idiot, having been crowned king of all the idiots in the land, and enjoying every minute of it!
“Am I pressing too hard?” she asked.
“No,” came the fuzzy, high pitched response from somewhere in the depths of the twilight zone of serenity and comfort into which I had plunged.
When it was all done, she polished me off with a neck massage and a shoulder rub. I had to be led back to my stylist’s chair, with a grin that could knock over a small town.
What is the moral of this story?
If you’re looking for a hair cut…go to any place that employs short, impeccably dressed Japanese women, possessing fingers that were trained by highly disciplined � and expertly coiffed � shogun warriors!
