There’s something wonderful about Japanese service. On the bustling island, it is said that the customer is King, and you really begin to feel it when some minimum wage server sprints from the kitchen to your table just to shave three seconds off your wait time. In Japan, everyone is working like hell for everyone else, and they always seem to find ways to serve the customer better.

So when I saw this unusual picture of washers and dryers sitting in Denime Tokyo, I immediately thought of how cool this service would be if it were available in all denim shops. In truth, Denime Tokyo is not the only place that provides this full service. Now, other stores, like the best Evisu boutiques, have caught on and give the option to shrink and hem purchases for next-day pickup. But Denime Tokyo shortens the turnaround to a couple hours, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen washers so prominently placed in a boutique before!

When you see raw denim, in it’s clown-sized original form, stiff like cardboard and only awkwardly wearable around family members and empathizing denim connoisseurs, providing an in-store shrink and cut gives the option for immediate gratification. It’s kind of like tossing a craps table, a couple strippers, and Hunter S. Thompson’s briefcase in front of a loaded Daniel Baldwin. It gets the plastic swiping (or chopping)!

Anyway, I’d love to see this service offered by more high-end denim shops, even though I’d probably side with caution and do the shrink myself.

A lot of times, I look at the youth of Japan and wonder where they get their inspiration to look so outrageously defiant. There’s the ganguro and yamamba of yesteryear, and the many other tribal micro-cultures that flourish everyday amongst the country’s rebellious youth.

Then I take a look at some of Japan’s traditional wear.

On the right, we have some apprentice geishas (maiko) loitering in Gion, Kyoto. On the left, a modern ganguro chats it up. My analysis: They’ve dug the tropical batshit crazy look for centuries.

And just because something is labeled ‘traditional’, doesn’t make it any less likely to bring back memories of staring at old people on the bus after inhaling a canister full of melting Bubblicious, smoldering cigarettes, and humid Mountain Dew vapors. Not that I tried that over the weekend. OK, so I might of. But it was a dare. And for charity. Hey, at least I fared better than Cody’s salvia induced narcoleptic ape-man regression.