I’ve always believed that getting a haircut in a new country is the ultimate adventure. On a trip to Tokyo, I decided to put that theory to the test. I wandered into a tiny salon tucked away in a side street, armed with a phrasebook and a photo of the haircut I wanted.

The stylist, a young man with neon-green hair, greeted me with a bow. He didn’t speak a word of English, and my Japanese was limited to “hello” and “thank you.” But somehow, we managed to communicate through gestures and smiles.

As he worked, I watched in awe. His precision was like nothing I’d ever seen. When he finished, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My hair was a sleek, asymmetrical bob that looked like it belonged on a runway.

That haircut wasn’t just a style—it was a memory. Every time I looked in the mirror, I was reminded of my adventure in Tokyo and the kindness of a stranger who didn’t need words to create something beautiful.