Chapter 2: I Didn't Cut It

The shards of the mirror frame were still trembling faintly, reflecting Qian Guifang's shredded mask. The hall was so quiet you could hear dust settling on the floor. Dried leaves from He Xiaoman’s pothos plant rustled and fell onto the tiles, much like the shattered pieces left in everyone’s hearts after that slap.

Qian Guifang clutched her scalp, fingers digging deep into her hairline. The humiliation of being stripped bare in public made her whole body shake. She didn’t cry out in pain, didn’t weep. She just stared at He Xiaoman’s retreating back, a cold, sinister fire burning in her eyes. Before that fire could reach its primary target, chaos erupted at the entrance.

A frantic pounding shattered the silence. The rolling shutter door was shoved open, gusts of November’s chill air rushing in, carrying the smell of outdoor dust. A young woman in a dark green military coat barged in, clutching a handful of change, her face bright red—clearly furious enough that she hadn’t been paying attention to where she was walking.

“Give my money back! Explain yourself!” The woman’s voice was high-pitched and sharp, radiating an unmistakable, feisty aggression. She marched straight toward the counter. It was none other than Zhang Xiulan, who had come in that morning to fix up her sideburns for a date. Now, she looked like a cat whose fur was on end, eyes locked on the people in the shop.

Qian Guifang panicked. She instinctively shrank back behind He Xiaoman, as if the apprentice were some kind of bulletproof shield. He Xiaoman’s scissors kept cutting, *snip*, a dried leaf cutting off in the blades. She didn’t look up, just glancing sideways at Zhang Xiulan’s狼狈 state through her peripheral vision.

“Sister Zhang, calm down. There are customers here, it’s bad for the reputation.” Qian Guifang’s voice shook, trying to use her seniority to bully her way through. “Xiaoman’s hand slipped today. I told her to practice more cuts. It’s my mistake. I’ll compensate you!”

“Compensate? Are you going to compensate my dignity?” Zhang Xiulan slammed the loose change on the counter, coins scattering across the floor. “I told you, I wasn’t sitting properly. Who’s the one to blame?”

The old customers nearby exchanged glances, whispering. Everyone knew Qian Guifang was the chief stylist and He Xiaoman was just the water-heating odd job. Taking the fall for this meant He Xiaoman would probably lose even the privilege of boiling water.

He Xiaoman put down her scissors, brushing leaf debris off her hands. She stepped forward, positioning herself in front of Qian Guifang. The motion was so natural, as if she were shielding from wind and rain rather than blame. Zhang Xiulan froze, surprised this little girl would actually talk back.

“Who are you?” Zhang Xiulan raised an eyebrow. “Pay up!”

He Xiaoman didn’t answer. She just stared at Zhang Xiulan’s profile. The bronze comb in her palm was slightly warm—that was its signal for sensing an "error." No need to look; as her fingers traced the hair, the bone structure became as clear as yesterday.

“Sister Zhang, your sideburns? They weren’t cut wrong.” He Xiaoman’s voice wasn’t loud, but every word was crisp, cutting through the room’s murmuring.

Zhang Xiulan’s eyes went wide. “You just made that mistake, now you’re backtracking? You’re trying to weasel out of it?”

“I didn’t backtrack.” He Xiaoman pointed to the left side of Zhang Xiulan’s ear. “See this shallow incision? It’s angled downward, with even force. If it was a bad cut, the strokes would be messy. There would be jagged edges, layers.”

She walked to the mirror, picked up a comb, and gently parted the hair. Zhang Xiulan instinctively flinched, but He Xiaoman held her shoulder in place.

“The old scar on the back of your neck. That’s from a fall three years ago, right?” He Xiaoman asked.

Zhang Xiulan froze, her hand hanging in mid-air. She was indeed terrified of people knowing that old story about falling off a horse; she usually covered it up with a hairpiece.

“When cutting, the technician has to follow the muscle texture to avoid that old scar; you can’t just slice straight down.” He Xiaoman’s finger traced the area above the old scar. “This gap in your left sideburn flows outward. That was to frame your right whorl, which sits high. But your right whorl actually leans down-right. This trim was meant to hide your prominent left cheekbone.”

He Xiaoman turned to look at Qian Guifang: “Master Qian, your habit is rushing. To save time, you prefer ‘pushing’ over ‘snipping.’ This cut has clean, knife-like ends. No subtle misalignment from scissor blades opening and closing. This is the work of a single-blade pusher, fast and rough. Only a master who chases efficiency like you would use this technique to clear a client before clocking out.”

The hall went deadly silent. Qian Guifang’s face turned deathly pale. Her lips trembled, trying to protest, but her throat was too dry. She had indeed rushed it—she had a date that day and was in a hurry. So she used her coarsest technique. She just hadn’t expected a water-heating girl to see through it so thoroughly.

Zhang Xiulan looked at He Xiaoman, then at Qian Guifang. Her expression softened, but doubt remained: “You’re saying Master Qian cut it? But Master Qian said you made her do extra practice cuts.”

“She didn’t make me practice.” He Xiaoman said lightly. “She just made me stand there and watch. Because she was shaking, she was afraid to move. She asked me to ‘help’ by holding her head. I was holding it, but I never touched the scissors. She was afraid I’d damage the tools, so she said that, trying to drag me into the scapegoat role.”

A flash of viciousness crossed Qian Guifang’s eyes. “Ridiculous! You’re just talking nonsense!”

“If it’s nonsense, look at the scalp.” He Xiaoman pointed to Zhang Xiulan’s scalp. “Three centimeters behind your left ear, there’s a tiny clogged hair follicle. That’s from long-term use of cheap hair wax. Master Qian, did you use that new snow cream on her yesterday? The one you brought back from Guangzhou? It smells harsh. I smelled it. It mixed with the camphor smell on you. Very strong.”

Zhang Xiulan rubbed her nose, thinking it over. “There is that smell. I didn’t notice before. I tried to wash it out with shampoo, but it got worse.”

Zhou Dehai, in the corner, paused his whetstone. The sound of the whetstone rubbing the blade was sharp in the silence. He squinted, looking at He Xiaoman with a complicated gaze.

“Xiao He, you really know your smells.” Zhou Dehai’s voice was hoarse.

He Xiaoman looked at Zhou Dehai and nodded slightly. She knew the old man was helping her. As long as Zhou Dehai spoke, Qian Guifang couldn’t push the blame off anymore.

Qian Guifang panicked. She dropped to her knees with a thud, grabbing Zhang Xiulan’s leg. “Sister Zhang, I know I was wrong. I was too careless. Let me fix it for free for a month. Deal?”

Zhang Xiulan shook her hand off in disgust, stood up, and brushed the dust off her military coat. She looked at He Xiaoman, the hostility in her eyes fading, replaced by curiosity: “Little girl, who taught you these tricks?”

“Taught by my hands.” He Xiaoman smiled, neither humble nor arrogant. “When your hands are skilled, your eyes get sharp. Master Qian, admit it when you lose. Don’t blame it on me. These hands of mine haven’t even touched a client’s scissors yet. What confidence do I have to claim I was holding your head?”

Qian Guifang slumped to the floor. The gazes around her were like needles pricking her skin. Her pride in her seniority and authority was completely shattered in this moment.

Outside, the noisy sound of wheels rolled in. Shen Huaishan pushed his old tricycle into the shop door. The cargo bed held several boxes of hairdressing magazines and perm fluids mailed from Guangzhou. He didn’t look at the drama; he walked straight to the back room, his steps steady.

“Xiaoman, you’re still here.” Shen Huaishan’s voice was low, sounding like he was reporting to someone.

He Xiaoman turned, seeing Shen Huaishan’s gaze, and felt her heart loosen. He understood her stubbornness. He knew when she needed support.

“Master Shen, help me move this.” He Xiaoman pointed to the box in the corner.

Shen Huaishan didn’t ask questions. He walked over, lifted the box with one hand, muscles tense, steady as a mountain. He didn’t participate in the scene, but his presence was like a wall, blocking the storm behind He Xiaoman.

Qian Guifang watched this, her eyes dark and gloomy. She knew this small barbershop was about to change.

Zhou Dehai put away the whetstone and walked to Zhang Xiulan. His cloudy eyes studied her sideburns, and he nodded. “Xiao He is right. This is a flaw from rushing, not a bad cut. Sister Zhang, don’t worry. I’ll fix this for you.”

Zhang Xiulan exhaled, paid the bill, and turned to leave. As she went, she glanced back at He Xiaoman, her eyes holding a mix of curiosity and pity.

The hall returned to calm, but the atmosphere was suffocating. Qian Guifang silently stood up, brushed the dust off her knees, and stared blankly into the mirror. In the reflection, her hairpiece lay on the table, lonely and alone.

He Xiaoman walked to Zhou Dehai’s side and took the gleaming pusher razor from his hands.

“Uncle Zhou, can I borrow this razor?” He Xiaoman’s voice was calm.

Zhou Dehai looked at her, handed over the razor, and tapped the edge. “The edge is a bit dull. Grind it three times before use.”

“I know.” He Xiaoman agreed. In her heart, she was clear: she had won this battle. But it hadn’t been easy. Every step had been taken on the blade’s edge.

Qian Guifang stood to the side, nails digging into her palms. She understood: He Xiaoman wasn’t showing off. She was making a declaration. That water-heating odd job apprentice was no longer just an apprentice.

“Xiaoman, you’ve got a nerve.” Qian Guifang finally spoke, her voice raspy. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll fire you?”

“Master, if you wanted to fire me, you would have done it yesterday.” He Xiaoman turned around, looking at Qian Guifang with clear, firm eyes. “I’m just stating facts. Facts don’t get fired.”

The corner of Qian Guifang’s mouth twitched. She tried to smile, but couldn’t. She looked at Zhou Dehai. He was facing away, adding coal to the furnace. The firelight illuminated the old man’s profile. His expression was unreadable, but it radiated a cold, fair justice.

“Old Zhou, you’re really good at playing dumb.” Qian Guifang gritted her teeth.

Zhou Dehai didn’t turn around. He said quietly, “Whether I’m playing dumb doesn’t matter. What matters is: skill doesn’t lie.”

He Xiaoman held the razor, feeling warmth rise from her palms. The bronze comb, hidden in her pocket, was slightly hot, as if celebrating this small victory with her. She knew this was just the beginning. In this state-owned shop, full of scheming and prejudice, she was going to carve out her own territory.

Outside, Shen Huaishan’s cart sounds rolled in again, carrying the dusty air of the road. He returned, bringing news from afar, and with it, her confidence.

He Xiaoman took a deep breath, picked up the comb, and walked toward the next waiting customer. Her movements were crisp, her focus intense. That timid water-heating girl was dying bit by bit, replaced by a stylist with sharp eyes, scissors in hand.

Zhou Dehai watched her back and muttered low: “Never touched many heads, but the eyes are sharp.”

Those words felt like a prophecy, taking quiet root in that gloomy afternoon.