Little T Lurking in the Beauty Salon, What's the Purpose of All the Flirting? - Chapter 1

Lao Mi and I rushed to Xixi’s apartment. The door was wide open, and Grandma Li, who had called us, was standing guard at the entrance. Grandma, Xixi can’t make it. I’m her friend. What happened? Grandma Li, leaning on her cane, pursed her lips and began to ramble, Oh dear, I went out to buy groceries this morning and saw the door was unlocked. I thought, ‘This place has been empty for over half a month. Who’s back today?’ When I woke up from my nap at noon and went downstairs for a walk, the door was still open. I knocked twice, but no one answered. When I pushed it open, I was terrified! The place was a mess—clearly ransacked by thieves. Do you think we should call the police? Blah blah blah…

After thanking Grandma Li, we assured her we would handle it. The old woman returned home, still skeptical. Lao Mi and I entered the apartment. The place was a disaster, every corner ransacked.

All the major appliances are still here, so don’t worry, Lao Mi said from beside me. Since no one lives here anymore, there’s no way they’d keep bankbooks or cash in the house. It should be fine.

I stepped over the trash-strewn floor into Xixi’s room. The drawers had been emptied by the thief, their contents scattered across the floor. I knelt down and began sorting through the mess, piece by piece, when I spotted a grimy notebook. I opened it casually and discovered it was Xixi’s messy diary. The handwriting was so hurried and chaotic that it seemed less like a diary and more like occasional emotional outbursts.

Here’s an excerpt. By the way, snooping through someone’s diary is shameful.

April 23, 2003 Today was the first time I felt utterly heartbroken, a moment of complete despair. This afternoon, I found a note in my mother’s vanity drawer, written on the back of a childhood photo of me Xixi, you grew up in bitterness. At that moment, I wept uncontrollably, the pain piercing my heart and marrow, seeping into every fiber of my being. It was then that I first understood what depression and uncontrollable emotions truly meant.

 April 30, 2003  While tidying up today, I came across an essay I wrote in high school. I smiled and tore it up. How could I have written such a twisted, childish act of rebellion? Maybe I was just too young and naive back then. I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love with a man, let alone want to seduce and violate someone. I’ve always wanted to tell my father You’re the only man who has ever truly hurt me, both in the past and for the rest of my life.

 June 2, 2003  Dad came back to cause trouble again today. I wish they would just divorce so we could all start over. I think he’s so selfish for giving me this kind of family—the constant insecurity and the feeling that he desperately wants to abandon us. This pain is buried deep inside me, throbbing intermittently. Maybe it will fade with time, but the impact will only deepen as I grow older. Many people say they like my cold, violent personality. Heh, over time, I’ve even come to see it as a rare, painful, and tragic experience that others lack. It hurts, but it’s also strangely satisfying. Once you get used to it, it doesn’t bother you anymore. It’s a shame I don’t like writing essays; otherwise, I could turn this into a book someday. It would definitely be a bestseller. Maybe then I’ll finally thank my father for shaping the person I am today—my character and temperament.

July 20, 2003 It’s so hot today. Dad came home, and I think he might have heatstroke. He has a fever. I sat by his bed for a long time, feeling like it had been ages since we’d been this close. When I was little, I had a vague fear of him. As I grew older, hearing fragments of my past pieced together by others, that fear turned into resentment. Now that I’m older, I feel a strange mix of pity and bitterness toward him as he ages. There’s even an impulse to love him. But in reality, when I face him, all that’s left is silence.

September 19, 2003 Today is my birthday and the first day of university registration. Mom insisted on taking me to school, but I really wanted Dad to come too. I wanted to take a photo together at the school gate, since all our family photos were torn up during their fights, leaving nothing behind. I tried calling Dad repeatedly, but he didn’t answer. I really wanted to see him today.

September 24, 2003 One of my roommates is named Mi Xiaonan. The moment I walked into the dorm on registration day, she was sitting on the top bunk by the window, headphones on, and greeted me with a drawn-out Hiiiiii From that first glance, I knew we were kindred spirits. Sharing such a small space day and night, I think we’ll become friends.

September 28, 2003 Xiaonan and I have adjacent upper bunks, sleeping head-to-head. Today, we bought a square mirror together and fixed it to the wall between our beds. At night, when we lean against our beds chatting or reading, we often turn to look in the mirror together. Then we’d open our eyes wide, bare our teeth, and grin like a pair of idiots. She said, I love your eyes. They’re so dark and bright, like a dog’s. I wanted to smack her.

January 21, 2004 It’s New Year’s Eve. Dad’s not here, so I’m alone in my room watching an old movie. Leo died. As he died, firecrackers exploded outside and the Spring Festival Gala blared on TV. I checked the time on my phone—midnight. New Year’s. A film from years ago, but I’m watching it for the first time. I’m actually really jealous of Matilda. When I was her age, I didn’t have Leo’s protection, whether he was a father, a music teacher, or a lover—none of it. So, I envy Matilda. That potted plant of hers looks nice too. I don’t have one.

August 5, 2004 Today is Dad’s birthday. It’s been so long since I last saw him. His phone number is at the very top of my phonebook, but I haven’t called him in ages. At noon today, I hesitated with the phone in my hand for what felt like an eternity, and then, once again, I chose silence. I don’t know what to say to him. All I really want to tell you is, Dad, I miss you so much.

Did you ever love me? It’s been so long since I last asked myself that question. I know you loved me, at least for a time. I know you loved me so much back then. That’s why thinking of you makes me so sad, why tears suddenly stream down my face. No other man has ever made me feel this way. But I also know that in your eyes, I’ve always been an unlovable child. As time has passed, our shared moments have become increasingly rare. I’m so much like you—small eyes, an ugly nose. I’ve inherited your stubbornness, your irrationality, your arrogance, your explosive temper. I wear these traits with pride and have even amplified them. I’ve remained silent because I’m used to your silence. But I want you to know that I love you. I always have, even during those days filled with resentment and hatred. Dad, I think we’re both on the verge of forgetting each other. So, I’ll just say it here Happy birthday.

September 16, 2004 School started just a few days ago. Tonight, I had dinner with Xiaonan, and we drank a bit too much. Old grudges resurfaced, and we ended up fighting, which drew the police. Why am I always so quick to anger? I hope Xiaonan won’t blame me.

October 15, 2004 This afternoon, while shopping, I saw Dad at the mall with a woman, looking very intimate. When I recognized her, I froze—it was Xiaonan’s mother. Now, as I sit here writing this, my mind is a whirlwind of rage and frustration. There was a time when I thought I could forgive him, even support him in his old age. But now I realize that’s utterly impossible. I want nothing to do with him anymore. He doesn’t expect anything from me, and my expectations of him are equally meaningless. I admit I crave the idea of fatherly love, but he’s just him—an individual. I can’t love him anymore. Yet, I’ll always cherish the word father with boundless affection. He’s dead, but the concept of fatherhood lives on.

October 16, 2004 Today I told Xiaonan about my parents, hoping she would go back and persuade her mother. She refused, saying she didn’t want to face such things. I don’t know what to do anymore. Maybe I’m really meddling too much.

October 20, 2004 My hands are trembling, and I know it’s not because of the weather. This afternoon, while visiting a friend, I saw Xiaonan’s younger sister, Qiqi, squatting at a crossroads, looking very distressed. I asked her what was wrong, and she said the sudden cold had triggered her illness, and she’d forgotten to bring her medication. So I helped her back to get her medicine. When she opened the door, I saw them—Xiaonan’s mother’s expression is something I’ll never forget. For a moment, I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t until I saw Qiqi standing before me, trembling, that I snapped out of it. By the time I tried to pull her away from the scene, she had already run off on her own… Then I heard her scream… Xiaonan’s mother’s wailing… Dad’s curses hurled at me… the ambulance siren… Qiqi’s ragged breathing… I fled back to the dorm… Xiaonan wasn’t there… I don’t know how to face any of this… I’m terrified something will happen to Qiqi…

October 21, 2004 Qiqi is dead.

The diary ended there, and a wave of overwhelming sorrow choked me. I tossed the notebook to Lao Mi, who was sitting beside me smoking. Read this. This might be the truth.

Perhaps because Xixi’s handwriting was so messy, Lao Mi took a long time to finish reading. When she was done, she asked me casually, What’s the date today?

November 3rd.

The day after tomorrow, I’ll take you to find her. Let’s try our luck. Lao Mi tucked the notebook into her bag, waved for me to leave with her, and I knew that reading the diary had completely drained her.

On the evening of November 6th, Lao Mi came to find me as promised and took me to the crossroads Xixi had mentioned in her diary—the place where she first met Qiqi. When I saw the clusters of burning paper at the intersection, I realized it was the first day of the tenth lunar month. Lao Mi led me through the crowds, stopping beside a girl. The familiar face illuminated by the firelight was Xixi. She was there.

Xixi looked up and saw us, her expression flustered. Lao Mi pulled out the notepad and tossed it to her, then snatched a few sheets of Hell Money from her hand, tossing them into the fire one by one. No one spoke. On this day of sincere prayer and solemn farewell, all the sorrow dissolved into the tears brought on by the crackling flames, rising in wisps of blue smoke to dissipate into the air.

A few more thoughts…

I often wonder, if regrets could be mended and beauty prolonged, would our lives become perfect or remain flawed?

Regarding this story, I prefer to believe a simple answer—perhaps driven by desire, or perhaps by boredom—rather than some emotional deficiency.

There are too many things I’d rather not delve into deeply the things we’ve clung to, the things we’ve lost, the people we’ve met, and the people we’ve left behind.

Thank you. For the time we’ve shared, for the people who have accompanied me, and for all of you who have been following this thread these past few days.

Years ago, I watched an Icelandic film called Jar City.

The film opens with a father gently singing to his daughter

Sleep, my lovely little one…

Sleep, my lovely little one…

Jar City—a place in the film where human organs are preserved. It’s a place where the emotions of fathers, daughters, us, and you are imprisoned.

One film review put it this way Hear my voice, God, in my prayer. They seek justice, they find courage in an evil event, they secretly set traps… Protect my life from the fear of my enemies.

You think wearing armor will protect you. You can observe the filth from afar, as if it’s none of your concern. But every act of rejection clings to you like a demon, until you forget how ordinary people live their lives.

As the film ended, he murmured and drifted off to sleep in his daughter’s arms. The angel finally departed, and I heard the sound of prayers, wishing peace to the departed souls and comfort to the living.

It was a story about the pursuit of a certain truth, about the search for a certain destiny.

Years have passed, but I still remember this film. It requires a quiet mind to watch, and the music is hauntingly beautiful.

From that moment on, I learned that Iceland had another name the most beautiful scar on Earth.

Yes, the most beautiful scar. These words made me think of communities like LES.

Finally, I send my simplest blessings to each of you who have read this far. May you find happiness.

End