Chapter 3: Three Versions in Her Mind

The air at the Red Star Hair Salon was permanently thick with a toxic cocktail of coal smoke, sulfur soap, and cheap hair wax. In the corner, He Xiaoman crouched low, using the faint glow of the brazier to polish the glass cups in the perm cabinet until they gleamed.

The broken copper comb resting in her palm radiated a dull heat. That warmth crept up her wrist and into her elbow, like a silent current of electricity, chasing away the damp chill of the workshop. She lifted her head, her gaze cutting through the curling steam to land with surgical precision on the middle-aged woman standing at the opposite mirror.

That was Auntie Zhang, the shop’s infamous “thorn.” With her wide cheeks and round face, she was fussing with her freshly set curls, looking as anxious as a caged tiger. A fleeting, cold glint flashed in He Xiaoman’s eyes. Her fingers rubbed the copper comb inside her apron pocket, and a rare clarity washed over her like a rising tide. She knew the moment had come.

In this stagnant state-owned shop, only change could tear open a gap. Even if it was just a hairline fracture, it was enough to let her breathe.

The copper comb’s resonance sharpened her senses to a razor’s edge. Auntie Zhang’s bone structure no longer blurred in her mind; instead, it rendered as a detailed anatomical map: prominent cheekbones, a thick square jawline, a high, uneven hairline, and an old, white scar near her left temple.

Three styling options spun rapidly in her head. A blunt ear-length cut would be crisp, but it would expose her wide cheeks, making her face look even more square. An exposed-ear style was too cold and severe, clashing with Auntie Zhang’s status as a factory manager. Only the second option worked: a side-parted bob, the bangs swept down to just below the cheekbones. Using the curl to create an arc would soften her jawline, while the stray hairs would cleverly mask that scar.

He Xiaoman gripped the clipper, her knuckles turning white. She didn’t need to speak; her skill was the best proof. The moment she made that cut, the bullied water-heaping girl would die, replaced by a stylist with absolute control.

The steam in the workshop grew heavier, the engine hissing its monotonous, dull note. Zhou Dehai sat in the high-backed chair at the far end, eyes closed, rubbing the whetstone in his hand as if he’d fallen asleep. He Xiaoman knew the old man had ears sharper than anyone’s, but if he didn’t speak, it was his silent permission.

Qian Guifang—the chief technician in her white coat and three gold hairpins—wasn’t present. Her sharp voice carrying over from the next room as she drilled into a novice. He Xiaoman took a deep breath, her footsteps making no sound at all. She maneuvered around the mountain of towel baskets, closing the distance to Auntie Zhang’s side with the stealth of a shadow.

Auntie Zhang was impatiently dusting off her lap, muttering complaints about “ridiculous prices” and “heartless people.” He Xiaoman didn’t interrupt her griping. She just watched that anxious face in the mirror, her expression calm and focused, like a deep, bottomless pool where undercurrents were quietly churning.

Auntie Zhang noticed the stare, blinked, and then forced a fake, slightly mocking smile. “Oh, Little He. Just standing there spacing out again? What’s the matter, did the sun come up in the West today? Instead of tending the boiler, you’re here to chat with old wretches like us?”

As she spoke, she wiped her freshly perm’d roots with the back of her hand, the sour, stale smell spreading through the cramped space. He Xiaoman ignored the sarcasm. She simply tilted her head, her gaze sweeping across Auntie Zhang’s temples.

Her fingers lifted slightly, and her tip pointed at a spot three inches above Auntie Zhang’s left ear, a gesture so precise it was like a surgeon marking an incision.

“Auntie Zhang, there’s a scar here,” her voice was quiet but exceptionally clear, cold with zero unnecessary warmth. “It’s an old wound, but your hair grows in unevenly. Your previous styles never covered it properly, so you’ve always felt your face was too big, right?”

Auntie Zhang’s hand froze in mid-air. The smile on her face solidified instantly, then shifted to wary anger. She instinctively reached for the scar, her eyes locking onto He Xiaoman with a sharp glare. “Who do you think you are? Some brat dictating my hairline? Old Qian did this, what do you know?

I just have a plump face! Watch what you say, or I’ll tell Old Qian and you won’t be coming in here tomorrow!” The air in the room seemed to freeze instantly. The waiting customers stopped what they were doing, turning to look with curious, condescending gazes. He Xiaoman knew it was a trap in her mind.

In the state-owned system, challenging a master’s authority was a death sentence, and a regular like Auntie Zhang was just a puppet on Qian Guifang’s strings. But He Xiaoman didn’t flinch. Instead, she saw sharper— the fleeting waver in Auntie Zhang’s eyes was a raw desire to be understood, to be changed, a feeling that was currently suppressed by years of habit and submission.

He Xiaoman said no more. She simply took the scissors and comb from the rack. No asking, no negotiating, not even a glance back at Auntie Zhang. She grabbed a lock of hair, her wrist snapped, and the scissors snipped with a crisp *snap*, cleanly severing the flow. In the silent workshop, the sound was jarring, like a knife slicing through established order.

She began to deconstruct Auntie Zhang’s bone structure, her movements flowing like water, without a shred of hesitation. She layered the side-parted bangs, giving every strand a specific curve, designed to visually narrow the width of her cheeks while using the side texture to camouflage the scar.

Her speech was rapid, the rhythm so tight it felt suffocating. The air was filled with the crisp popping sound of shampoo foam breaking, mixed with the sulfurous burn of the coal stove. A strange pressure enveloped the whole area. Auntie Zhang watched herself in the mirror, her expression shifting from anger, to confusion, to wide-eyed shock. Her lips trembled, but no sound came out.

As the scissors danced, the heavy volume of her hair became light and bouncy. He Xiaoman worked at lightning speed, every cut landing exactly where she’d predicted, as if she’d rehearsed it a thousand times in her head. In the mirror, Auntie Zhang’s face was visibly transforming. Her square, wide jaw was now wrapped in soft ends, revealing lines that were tight and smooth.

That once-prominent scar was now hidden beneath natural, choppy layers. If you didn’t look closely, it was almost invisible. He Xiaoman stopped, placed the scissors back on the rack, and stepped back with her hands behind her back, clearing the view of the mirror.

She looked at Auntie Zhang, her eyes calm and still, as if she’d just finished a routine trim rather than a visual revolution that defied common sense. At the far end, Zhou Dehai opened his eyes slightly, a faint curve appearing at the corner of his mouth. The whetstone in his hand had stopped moving. The silent duel was over; the winner was decided.

Auntie Zhang shot up from the chair, her feet hitting the floor as she stared at the stranger in the mirror. She reached out, her hand trembling as she touched her own cheek. The hair felt smooth and close, that unprecedented lightness making it hard for her to breathe.

She slowly turned to look at He Xiaoman. The contempt and anger in her eyes had vanished, replaced by something that looked like religious awe and gratitude. She was so excited she was babbling, waving her hands in the air before finally gripping He Xiaoman’s arm, her grip painfully tight.

“Xiaoman! You girl... who taught you this? This is just... just magic!” Auntie Zhang’s voice cracked, a haze of tears forming in her eyes. She rummaged through her pockets and pulled a crumpled bill out of her wallet with shaking hands, shoving it into He Xiaoman’s palm. “Two yuan, take it!

It’s for you. Thank you, thank you for letting me see... you have to take this!”

He Xiaoman held the bill, which still carried the customer’s body heat, while her own fingertips felt ice-cold. It was the first tip a customer had ever given her in her life, and the first crack she’d found in this rigid system. Before she could even respond, a hand wearing a gold ring shot in, snatching the bill away with practiced speed.

Qian Guifang was already standing at the doorway, her face wearing its usual mask of cold arrogance and authority. She held the bill between her fingers, her icy gaze sweeping over He Xiaoman and Auntie Zhang. She didn’t even look at He Xiaoman, her voice flat. “During your apprenticeship, taking private pay is strictly forbidden. This is the rule.”

Auntie Zhang tried to argue, but a sharp look from Qian Guifang silenced her. She obediently sat back down, her gaze complex as she watched He Xiaoman’s retreating back. He Xiaoman clenched her fist. The copper comb in her palm was still hot, burning her pride yet giving her the strength to keep moving forward.

Qian Guifang turned and walked to the counter, her movements elegant and haughty. She tucked the two yuan into her apron pocket, the motion as smooth as water, as if the money had always belonged to her. She looked back, a mocking curve at her mouth, her eyes like needles stabbing at He Xiaoman. “Xiaoman, looks like you’re too idle. Since you’re so eager to show off your skills, stop working.

Starting tomorrow, you’re only allowed to boil water. You don’t touch anything else.” The air in the workshop solidified instantly. In the dead silence, only the crackling of the furnace could be heard. Auntie Zhang opened her mouth, but in the end, said nothing. She just lowered her head to quietly arrange her hair, a hint of helplessness and sympathy leaking from her eyes.

Zhou Dehai closed his eyes again, as if nothing had happened. But He Xiaoman saw the old man’s hand resting on his knee clench into a fist, the blue veins bulging, radiating a suppressed fury and protective instinct.

He Xiaoman stood her ground, her back to Qian Guifang. Her shoulders trembled slightly, but her voice remained steady. “Master Guifang, I’ll be here on time tomorrow to boil water. But I guarantee you, the next time I pick up the scissors, you won’t regret it.”

She finished, turned, and picked up the towel on the floor. Her movements were still sharp, her gaze still piercing. Qian Guifang blinked, then let out a fit of contemptuous laughter. The sound echoed in the empty workshop, feeling desolate and grating. She ignored He Xiaoman, turned, and walked into the next room, leaving behind a cold, haughty silhouette.

He Xiaoman lowered her head, looking at the copper comb in her palm. The scorching sensation was still spreading. It wasn’t celebrating; it was a warning: the road is long, and your opponents are more cunning than you imagine.

Outside, the sky was darkening. The fading sunset poured through the glass windows, dyeing the workshop in a hazy yellow. He Xiaoman washed the towel, folded it into a perfect square, and placed it on the rack. She could feel a gaze following her from behind. It was Zhou Dehai.

The old man didn’t open his eyes. He just tapped the whetstone in his hand, two soft *thud-thud* sounds, slow but powerful, like a silent encouragement. He Xiaoman straightened her back. Even if tomorrow would just make her an ordinary water-heaping worker, a fire had already lit inside her heart.

This fire wouldn’t go out under Qian Guifang’s suppression; instead, this confinement would only make it burn fiercer. She touched the empty space in her pocket and silently affirmed: the first gold hasn’t been secured yet, but the foundation has been laid.

Qian Guifang reached the doorway and paused. Without turning back, she dropped a cold sentence. “Xiaoman, don’t make me think you don’t understand the rules. If there’s another incident, don’t blame me for being harsh. I’ll just kick you out.”

With that, she pushed the door open and left. The sound of her heels clicking on the floor grew fainter as she disappeared around the corner. He Xiaoman didn’t follow. She just stared at the closed door, her eyes deep as a still pool.

She knew this was the beginning of a war. The weapons weren’t just the scissors in her hands, but that stubborn heart, and that copper comb hidden in her palm that could see the direction of the future. The workshop returned to its calm state. The steam continued to rise, masking the undercurrents of turmoil, and masking the flash of ruthlessness and determination in He Xiaoman’s eyes.

Outside, the sky had fully darkened. The roar of Shen Huaishan’s truck could be heard again in the distance. That was the sound of the vast world, and the signal that she would soon break free from her cage.