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Kamidentity | [A Tanuki's Short Story]

ダナタの狸

2025年8月25日 10:25

In the dim light while the world is still asleep,
I wake up.

There was still half an hour to go
before the clock's short hand pointed to five.

When I leave the bedroom without making a sound,
the chilly hallway stings my bare feet.

Time that belongs to no one in my family,
but only to me, begins.

I open the bathroom door.
It was a kind of anechoic chamber,
cut off from the noise of the outside world.

I stand in front of the mirror,
and face my hair, damp from the shower.

First, I soak up the bulk of the moisture with a towel.
Next, with another towel made of soft fibers,
I wrap my head gently, as if touching a newborn baby.

Each droplet catches the morning light,
and for a moment, my hair wears a crown of water droplets.

The dryer's air
alternates finely between hot and cold.

It is not the tools that lift the roots
and create the flow of the hair.
It is my own fingertips.

Once I finish the millimeter-level adjustments,
I select one from the several hair products lined up on the shelf,
choosing one that matches today's humidity and my mood.

I work it into my palms until it becomes transparent,
and blend it into my hair as if letting it breathe in air.

Finally, a boxwood comb that hates static electricity,
with its fine teeth,
smooths out the surface of my hair.

Using a hand mirror, I confirmed there were no blind spots.
This is not grooming.
It is a ritual of creation.

***

On windy days, I walk as if shielding my head with my bag.

I was constantly monitoring my own silhouette
reflected in the train doors.

A few strands of messy hair
are equivalent to a disturbance in the harmony of the world.

On my way to school,
I pass by the athletic field.

I see the club members working hard at practice,
but my gaze does not follow their faces,
nor the path of the white ball.

Only the sunlight pouring onto the backs of their sweat-drenched heads.
The blue stubble illuminated by it.

It is as if
it were the brand of managed livestock.

I furrowed my brow slightly,
and immediately looked away.

***

When I got home, the news was on.
On the screen, a line of men walking.

It seemed to be a feature on prison.

Everyone had their hair cropped the same way,
and that line of featureless heads
reflected the sunlight, creating a smooth,
uniform sheen.

I put down my chopsticks,
and stared at the shaved marks on the napes of their necks.

It was a symbol,
a declaration signifying the death of the individual.

I lost my appetite and stood up from the table in silence.

***

That declaration was handed down during the school assembly.

Along with the trite justification
of "learning discipline,"
the implementation of strict hair inspections was announced.

While voices of dissatisfaction rose from those around me,
I just stared silently at the teacher on the podium.

I would never forget that face.

***

On the day of the inspection, I lined up in the gymnasium.

When my turn came, the teacher grabbed my hair roughly.
Then, with a cold sensation,
a plastic ruler was pressed against my bangs.

"Too long. Cut it by tomorrow."

A concise order. I didn't say anything back.

I just glared with hatred at the ruler
that had reduced my world to merciless numbers.

***

I returned home and stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

I took the scissors out of the drawer and opened the blades.

　However, when my eyes met my own in the mirror,
　my fingers trembled and would not move.

　Pointing a blade at my hair
　was equivalent to slitting my own throat.

　I threw away the scissors I was holding,
　and grabbed my partner comb instead.

　I slammed it with all my might
　against the hard ceramic corner of the washbasin.

　With a dry sound of destruction,
　the comb that had cherished my hair for so many years
　snapped in two.

　Next, I opened the lid of the hair styling product,
　scooped out the contents with my fingers,
　and threw the sticky lump into the trash can.

＊＊＊

　The next morning, I left the house with my hair still wet,
　having only dried it roughly.

　The mirror in the washroom
　no longer spoke to me at all.

　It was just a cold sheet of glass,
　a silent mirror, nothing more.

　In the classroom, the boys were huddled together,
　laughing with each other.

　I did not join their circle,
　but just gazed out the window.

　On the field, the club members
　were grooming the ground after practice.

　Countless round heads shining white in the sunlight.
　Exposed napes of necks, stained with sweat and dirt.

　Symbols stripped of individuality.
　Just a part of the mundane scenery that exists there.

　Eventually, I turned on my heel and headed home.
　
　Even if my shortened bangs are blown by the wind,
　I no longer care.