He was a sumo, and he was going to go into the arena as one, dammit. 

Watanabe swatted aside the designer clothes that were thrust into his hands and glowered down at the mousy man assigned to him. "Get me thirty feet of silk," he commanded. "I will wear the [i]mawashi[/i], as is traditional. None of this modern day foolishness," he said as he contemptuously kicked at the pile of clothing on the ground. The stylist gulped nervously, relayed the request outside. With that concession made, the little man proceeded to snatch up a comb and hair product.

"No," Watanabe growled, protectively covering his long, flowing hair. With impressive dexterity for a man with such thick fingers, Watanabe nimbly tied his shoulder-length hair into a [i]chonmage[/i], the traditional topknot for sumo wrestlers. "I will fight with dignity and honor and I will not debase myself by pretending to be anything other than a sumo," he informed the cowering stylist. "Is that understood?"

The man couldn't do anything but gulp again and nod.