FOLDED SHIRTS, UNFOLDING JAPAN

Japan is changing.

Not everywhere. Not all at once.

But occasionally, small experiences make you stop and wonder whether something is quietly shifting beneath the surface.

At the same time, some things stubbornly hold onto the past.

Some desired change doesn't happen. And sometimes you get it without asking for it.

The other day, I visited our usual dry cleaner.

It requires a ten-minute drive, but for years I have been happily making the trip. Prices were reasonable, service excellent, and the system worked perfectly: once a month, I would arrive with a bag full of clothes and leave carrying last month’s order.

Simple.

This time, however, I was informed that cleaned items now need to be collected within ten days, otherwise storage fees apply.

What used to be normal is apparently no longer normal.

I assume rising costs are partly responsible. Rent certainly hasn’t become cheaper. Shop space is limited. Somebody has to absorb those costs.

Unfortunately, that somebody was apparently going to be me.

As my company recently announced a mandatory five-day return to the office – but that’s another story – collecting dry cleaning during weekdays isn’t realistic.

Driving there every weekend purely to collect shirts?

Not happening.

So I started investigating alternatives within walking distance.

The first dry cleaner I entered was one I had passed many times before.

The elderly woman behind the counter looked at me with the expression usually reserved for people who accidentally enter private homes. Her creased forehead didn’t exactly spell ‘welcome’.

I greeted her politely in Japanese.

She looked surprised.

Then, for reasons that remain unclear, appeared to temporarily lose the ability to understand Japanese.

I was always under the impression that I could make myself understood in the local lingo reasonably well, but she seemed to disprove that theory.

Eventually, communication resumed.

I asked how much they charged for cleaning a regular shirt.

‘270 yen.’ More or less standard around here.

Then I asked how much it would cost to receive the shirts back on hangers rather than folded.

This question seemed to fundamentally alter the trajectory of her day.

She disappeared into the back to consult her husband.

At this point, I had already concluded that this was probably a family business that had operated successfully for forty years without anyone ever asking dangerous, revolutionary questions about hangers.

She returned.

It would cost, she informed me, ‘multiple times’ the folded price.

Multiple times?

At those rates, buying replacement shirts starts becoming financially competitive.

She then spent considerable effort explaining why folded shirts were much more practical.

I considered explaining that our wardrobe contains ample hanging space but very limited shelf space, making hangers not only preferable but essential.

I decided not to bother.

Instead, I asked whether they accepted credit cards. I had already lost interest at this point, but I didn’t want to appear unfriendly.

No.

Cashless payments?

Also no.

Cash only.

I tried another dry cleaner closer to home.

There, hanger returns were standard, albeit with a small surcharge. Credit cards still weren’t accepted – after all, this is Japan – but at least they accept cashless payments via the PayPay App.

Two dry cleaners’ loss became one dry cleaner’s gain.

And then there is the story of the cab driver who seemed to view customer service as optional.

My wife and I recently returned from a domestic trip carrying two large suitcases.

As usual, we headed for the taxi rank.

A taxi pulled up – one of those newer models that always remind me of the famous black London cabs, only more compact.

We rolled our luggage behind the car and waited for the driver to emerge.

He didn’t.

Eventually, after considerable reflection, he climbed out, walked to the boot, opened it, and stood beside it.

Waiting.

It gradually became clear that this was not assistance.

This was supervision.

So we loaded our suitcases by ourselves.

After getting in, we gave him our address, just across the river in neighbouring Kanagawa Prefecture.

He cheerfully informed us that he didn’t know the area.

This in itself isn’t unusual. Tokyo cabbies don't possess the legendary knowledge of their London counterparts, and Japanese drivers generally rely heavily on navigation systems.

Except this gentleman also seemed reluctant to do that.

When we finally arrived home, he got out, opened the boot, and once again assumed his supervisory position while we unloaded our luggage ourselves.

The entire experience felt slightly surreal.

Perhaps he had back problems.

Perhaps rheumatism.

Perhaps a deep philosophical objection to lifting things.

Who knows.

What struck me more, though, was that none of these experiences would have surprised me much elsewhere.

But in Japan, they did.

Because for decades, one of the small luxuries of living here has been customer service that often goes far beyond what is strictly necessary.

Perhaps rising costs are changing things.

Perhaps labour shortages are.

Or perhaps I’m simply noticing the exceptions more.

Either way, it made me wonder.

Sometimes the easiest way to notice a country changing is not through headlines or statistics.

Sometimes it’s through dry cleaning and taxi rides.