On a Tuesday night, for the few minutes I surrendered my head at the hair salon, I wasn't worrying about anyone.

On a Tuesday night, I was getting my hair shampooed at the salon.

Lukewarm water flowed from my hairline toward the back of my head. The pads of the stylist's fingers pressed slowly around my temples. When asked, "Is the water temperature okay?" I replied, "It's perfect," and after that, I didn't have to say anything else.

It was after work. Right in the middle of the week. I think Tuesday is a day where you feel a sort of halfway exhaustion. The tension of Monday still lingers, but the weekend is still far away. I happened to have an appointment on the night of such a day.

The moment the chair tilted back and a soft towel was placed over my eyes, I realized: Oh, right now, I'm not worrying about anyone.

Worrying about others had become a habit.

At some point, I had been living my whole life constantly gauging how others were feeling.

When I was at the office, I worried about my boss's mood, my colleagues' expressions, and the subtext of emails. When I got on the train, I worried about the distance between me and the person next to me. Even when I got home, I was thinking about preparations for the next day. There were so few moments when I stopped worrying about others.

It wasn't that anyone forced me to. I think I just couldn't settle down unless I did. Reading the room, acting ahead of time, moving so that the other person wouldn't be inconvenienced. Somewhere along the line, I believed that was what it meant to be "proper."

When I was on leave from work, I was exhausted by that version of myself. When I met people, the time spent ruminating afterward—"I should have said this," "I wonder if that look meant they were angry"—was much longer than the time actually spent with them, and it was draining.

In a book by Dr. Hiroko Mizushima, there was a discussion about how consideration is supposed to be a form of kindness, but it can sometimes turn into a "defense mechanism to avoid being disliked" before you know it. I remember quietly thinking to myself when I read that, "Ah, mine is probably the latter."

The luxury of surrendering oneself

But on that chair at the hair salon, I couldn't do that.

My eyes were covered with a towel. My hands were just folded in front of me. The person doing the work decided everything that would happen next. I just had to be there.

I was literally surrendering my head to someone else's hands. I didn't have to think, "What should I do next?" I didn't have to think, "I need to be considerate." The person shampooing my hair moved their fingers naturally to match the shape of my head. I was just receiving that.

It was only a few minutes. But during those few minutes, the "worrying department" inside me was taking a break from work.

Only when I let my guard down did I realize how much tension I usually held. I finally realized on that chair that my shoulders had been hunched up without me even knowing it. The warmth of the water seemed to wash away from the back of my neck.

Until I could think, "It's okay to surrender"

If it were the old me, I probably would have been worrying even during a time like this.

Thinking things like, "Is the shampoo too strong? But it would be rude to say it's too weak," "Should I keep the conversation going?" or "Would it be rude to stay silent?" Even though I was supposed to be receiving a service, I would worry about the other person and end up going home exhausted.

I think I was bad at surrendering. When I left something to someone else, a sense of guilt would come first. I felt like if I didn't do it myself, I would be causing someone trouble.

But as I closed my eyes in that chair, it suddenly occurred to me: It's okay to let go right now. Because this is that kind of time.

Surrendering isn't being selfish. Doing nothing isn't being lazy. Entrusting my head to a professional's hands and just feeling how good it is—I had never allowed myself to do even that.

The towel was removed, and the chair slowly rose. The person in the mirror had a slightly dazed look. A relaxed face. But it wasn't a bad face.

On the way home, the night breeze brushed against my neck, and my freshly washed hair swayed softly. I hadn't done anything special. I had just had my hair washed. Yet, I felt much lighter than when I arrived.

It's okay to give yourself a few minutes of not trying so hard every once in a while. To leave the version of yourself that worries about others behind in that chair for a bit. I think I'll cherish that kind of time a little more from now on.

Take it slow. It's okay to let go. Because time where you don't have to try at all is something that should exist.

I am writing about these little 'moments of unwinding' that I've had recently, little by little, here. Please come back and read again if you'd like.

⚠️ This article is not medical advice.
If you continue to experience physical or mental distress, please consult a doctor or professional.
This is a personal record based on the author's experience.