We had some business at the American embassy a couple of weeks ago. Because of the pissing match going on between the spoiled brats in Washington and Pyongyang, security at the embassy is tight. It’s a good thing we were early for our appointment because it took twenty minutes to get inside.
They didn’t go so far as a cavity search, but they did confiscate Rochi’s 1.5 inch Swiss army knife. It would have taken some pretty serious Shawshank Redemption style effort to do any damage with that. I was starting to lose my patience when, at the final checkpoint before entering the hallowed ground, a guard asked me to take off my head scarf. I stared at him, raised my hand as if to touch it and started to shake my head, “No.”
I’m usually a fairly cooperative and obedient citizen when it comes to things like that, where arguing usually causes more trouble than it’s worth, although it does piss me off when they make old ladies take off their shoes and get out of their wheelchairs to hobble through airport metal detectors. This wasn’t so very different from that. I understand security and one rule for everyone, but I will not be balded at the entrance to the embassy.
The guard stared back at me. I could see him mentally clicking through his training manual, then his eyes flew open and he said, “Gan desu ka? (Is it cancer?)” Too annoyed to be surprised at such a direct and personal question from someone it is safe to assume is a normally reticent Japanese, I raised one of what was left of an eyebrow and slowly nodded once. He let us pass.
As annoying as the experience was, the story gets better with time. I told a gay friend about it and he burst out laughing. “Did you just use ‘bald’ as a verb? I guess if you can ‘out’ someone, there’s no reason you can’t ‘bald’ them.” Indeed.
Tokyo Tales 