Mukuge Tsuwabuki, the headhunter, found me in a bohemian Parisienne art-squat. I’d waited patiently for about a year as he searched the globe for someone to better me. I was twenty-three, fresh from Sassoon, full of technique and the beginnings of a generous topping artiness. I had no idea what I was about to do with it next. He wanted me in Nagoya. I checked my emails weekly on Sandy’s internet connection in the attic of the squat. On the other side of the planet there was a salon, a college, students. Knowledge to transfer across a language barrier. Of course I wanted in.

What I didn’t know was the salon would be getting the best students because of the exotic prestige of my presence. In preparation I had documented everything I’d learned about cutting hair, illustrating it in CorelDraw, and printing it out into an A5 ringbinder textbook so as to share my freshly gained knowledge. In retrospect I imagine myself as an inverted medieval journeyman.

But before any of that lands, I’d like to introduce you to the seven people who’ll go on to shape it all. I’ve changed their names.

Mukuge Tsuwabuki was the headhunter who’d found me. He had a clarity about what he wanted. Me. Specifically, because of where I’d trained and the curious kudos I carried with me. Mukuge was the plug.

Yubāba Sama was the head of the college. I never quite managed a real conversation with her. She existed at a distance, formal and present, but always slightly out of reach. I’d never see her in corridors, and the space between us never closed. Later, I’d understand that distance was, in fact, unclosable.

Fujiwara Shigeru owned the salon. Little did I know at the outset he was the one who’d arranged the whole contract, the college placement etc. He sped us in his brand new Audi TT along the overhead motorways to exotic retreats where we’d never quite get to the point. It was like he’d made something work that shouldn’t have.

Leonara Laustralienne was my co-expatriot. Australian, pragmatic, not so far from home. We’d sit in the hyper-French café, piecing together what was actually happening over many coffees. She’d be amazed at my ability to navigate the city. She worked in the salon, I worked in the school. We met up at night school and would drink sweet coffee together.

The students. About sixty high school leavers, three groups, twenty at a time. They were a mix of keen, curious, mystified and mischievous. Interested in me as a novelty. Sometimes I’d have Mukuge Tsuwabuki translate for me, sometimes a dedicated translator and sometimes it was just me, the students, my textbook and the whiteboard. They were sharp and quick to learn, but as I’d find out, part of a much more complicated dynamic than had been explained.

The café staff. Ever-present but invisible, they knew my order before I arrived. They were stable in a way nothing else was and they reminded me of home. That place was like a portal to Paris. Again I’d found myself a sanctuary, but this time in café form.

And of course last but by no means least: me! Twenty-three, still believing that technical knowledge was enough. Hoping that year of waiting in a Parisienne art house hadn’t been in vain.

The first weeks were amazing and exhausting in equal measure. Twelve hour days, every day of the week. Trips across the country every other weekend. I drew from my book onto the whiteboard. The students understood my diagrams. It felt purposeful, in the classroom, I was in my element.

But the admin side of things got shiftier as the weeks went by.

The contract, the one Fujiwara had drawn up, began to unravel. My scissors, which Eugene had gifted me, went missing. Being taken to elaborate resorts, swept into karaoke bars almost every night after work, drowning in presents and cards on Valentine’s Day, flirtation from my female students which I had no framework for.

I was learning Nagoya by myself, piecing together what was actually happening through conversations with estate agents, other expatriates at night school, anyone who could speak English. Slowly realizing that what I’d signed up for wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

And somewhere in all of that the 5 am starts, the stolen scissors, the karaoke, the presents, I began to understand that I wasn’t here as a teacher. I was here as a gift. A human present from the salon to the school. A novelty. A way to get the best students.

That’s when things stopped being unclear.