Headbangers Ball

Let me tell you a little lesson I have learned since moving here about physics, architecture, and the ongoing battle between my forehead and the built environment of Japan.

"Arrgh! Will I ever escape the clutches of this damn knee-high architecture?!"

As a tall American (let’s say just shy of NBA eligibility), I expected some challenges when moving to Japan. I knew I’d stand out in crowds. I knew I’d have to crouch into every group photo like I was guarding a free throw. I even mentally prepared for the stares that scream, "Wow, Godzilla really let himself go."

What I did not prepare for was the daily head trauma.

The first incident happened within 24 hours of arrival. Jet-lagged and eager to explore, I confidently walked through the doorway of my new apartment—only to be immediately humbled by the unforgiving upper frame of the genkan entrance. The impact sent my sunglasses flying, my dignity plummeting, and my wife into uncontrollable laughter.

"Oh no, are you okay?" she managed to gasp between giggles, clearly not at all concerned for my well-being.

I shook it off. One mistake, no big deal. But then came the convenience store entrance. Thunk. The train doorway. Smack. The tiny izakaya bathroom. Wham. It was like my skull had become a tuning fork for traditional Japanese craftsmanship.

Each day, my forehead grew more tender. I began walking with the careful, slow movements of someone wading through a minefield, fearful that any step could lead to another cranial catastrophe. I envied the locals, who moved gracefully through spaces designed for them, while I lumbered around like a giraffe in a subway station.

Then, one fateful day, a memory surfaced. A traumatic experience from my past that should have taught me everything I needed to know about unsuspecting head injuries.

Picture this: a young, optimistic me, back in the U.S., deciding to finally organize the attic. Armed with determination and absolutely no self-preservation instincts, I pulled down the attic stairs with gusto—only to have the entire contraption descend with the force of a medieval battering ram, directly onto my skull. I saw stars. I saw my childhood flash before my eyes. I reconsidered all of my life choices up to that moment.

And now, here I was in Japan, doomed to relive that experience on a near-daily basis. Every doorway, every low-hanging beam, and every decorative lantern was a new attic ladder, lying in wait.

But here’s the thing: the human skull is surprisingly resilient. Over time, I adapted. I learned to duck instinctively. I developed a sixth sense for overhead threats. My forehead became a finely tuned radar for detecting low clearances.

Sure, I still hit my head sometimes, but now it’s more of a soft boop rather than a full-force knockout blow. Progress!

So if you ever find yourself moving to Japan and you’re of above-average height, take my advice: walk with caution, keep your head on a swivel, and maybe invest in a helmet. Because trust me—these doorways don’t play fair.