By the time they left the hospital, it was noon. Neither Zhao Buxi nor Lu Fengtong had eaten, so they found a random roadside restaurant where meals averaged about twenty yuan and the portions were generous.
Remembering how Liang Shujia had been grinding his teeth in fury in the hospital room gave Lu Fengtong an excellent appetite. Shoveling rice into his mouth, he said, “Little Zhao, we couldn’t have landed this project without you. But we’re going to be awfully busy for the next half month.”
Zhao Buxi had taken such a big mouthful that he nearly choked. He swallowed his rice. “How so?”
Seeing him struggle, Lu Fengtong asked, “Want a Coke?”
Zhao Buxi nodded. “Yeah.”
“Ma’am, I’ll take two bottles of Coke!”
Lu Fengtong called to the woman at the register, fetched two bottles from the cooler, and handed one to Zhao Buxi before sitting down again. “Now that the project’s signed, we’ll have to oversee the work, keep track of progress, and streamline the process.”
“Prepare to work overtime at a moment’s notice. It definitely won’t be as easy as the last two weeks.”
Whenever the company closed a deal, everyone rushed around frantically. It had been over half a year since their last scramble like this.
Lu Fengtong hadn’t felt this ambitious and eager in ages. Fired up by his own words, he attacked another couple of mouthfuls of rice, feeling brimming with energy.
Of course things would get busy once a project was secured. “So I just follow you around every day, right?” Zhao Buxi asked.
“Right. I’m only telling you so you’re mentally prepared,” Lu Fengtong said.
“Sometimes we might not get off work until one or two in the morning.”
Zhao didn’t need much preparation. Back at the garage, he’d worked all-night shifts, eaten breakfast at seven, then headed home to sleep.
With a full stomach, he always fell asleep quickly and slept soundly.
Besides, Zhao Buxi thought his current job was easy. All he did was follow Lu Fengtong around. Compared with his days at the garage, it hardly counted as tiring.
After lunch, Zhao Buxi stopped at a shop selling hairdressing supplies.
While washing up that morning, he’d noticed Zhao Sheng’s hair was getting long.
Brushing his teeth, Zhao Buxi had asked, “Little Tiger, isn’t your hair getting a little long?”
Hearing his brother, Zhao Sheng pinched a strand hanging in front of his eyes. “It is a bit.”
He’d been busy for more than a week and had forgotten about a haircut. Now his hair was starting to prick his eyes.
“I’ll get it cut after class today.” Zhao Sheng took out his phone. These days you had to book a haircut a day in advance. Who knew whether there would be an opening at the campus salon?
If it was fully booked, he’d find a tiny, unassuming shop off campus, run by a middle-aged man or woman who was also the hairdresser. Those places were cheap and didn’t require appointments.
Looking at Zhao Sheng’s overgrown hair, Zhao Buxi said, “I’ll cut it for you.”
To save money when they were younger, the brothers had always cut their hair at home. Zhao Buxi had given Zhao Sheng every haircut throughout high school.
Once Zhao Sheng went off to college, that stopped. It had been ages. Some things carried entire memories inside them; the mere mention of his brother cutting his hair brought Zhao Sheng back to their life together during his high-school years.
It was as though Doraemon’s time machine had materialized and whisked him back to being fifteen.
At fifteen, he’d sat with an old T-shirt around his neck and an anxious, solemn expression, while his brother, sporting a disastrously crooked little-girl bob, rolled up his sleeves and bent over him, legs spread, scissors in hand, looking like the mascot on a Fujiya candy package.
Back then, his brother’s hair had been medium-length. Someone visited the village every month to buy people’s hair, and when Zhao Buxi heard hair could be sold, he began growing his own.
He tried several times. But long hair was inconvenient when repairing cars, and tying it up in summer was hot, so he almost always gave up halfway.
His hair never grew long enough to sell. Before cutting Zhao Sheng’s, he practiced on himself and somehow gave himself a perfectly straight fringe.
Zhao Buxi: …
Zhao Sheng: …
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
They stared at the idiot in the mirror with his blunt fringe. The room fell silent for several seconds before an earthshaking fit of laughter erupted, as mighty as mountains collapsing and the heroes perishing before heaven’s stone stairways could be joined.
Since his brother had ruined his own haircut, Zhao Sheng was on edge the entire time Zhao Buxi cut his.
“Bro, did you mess it up?” he asked.
“No,” Zhao Buxi answered.
A little later, Zhao Sheng asked again, “Bro, did you leave a bald patch?”
Shaking his head as he snipped, Zhao Buxi said, “Nope, nope.”
“Bro…”
Amid Zhao Sheng’s incessant, egg-laying-hen chorus of “Bro, bro, bro,” Zhao Buxi finished the haircut.
Zhao Buxi handed his brother a mirror. “Well? How do you look, handsome?”
In the mirror, Zhao Sheng’s hair was neatly shaped, the edges smartly trimmed. He looked crisp and full of youthful vigor at first glance.
It wasn’t ruined! Holding the mirror, Zhao Sheng exclaimed, “Bro, you’re really good at this!”
Zhao Buxi flicked his forehead. “And you doubted your brother at first.”
“But, Bro, your bangs…” Zhao Sheng started laughing again.
Zhao Buxi laughed along. “They did look pretty stupid, didn’t they?”
Like a little tiger, Zhao Sheng went, “Rawr.”
The brothers giggled together.
In that tiny home, they had depended on each other through more springs, summers, autumns, and winters than either could count.
Remembering how nicely his brother used to cut his hair, Zhao Sheng agreed. “Okay.”
“Then I’ll buy some tools tonight,” Zhao Buxi said.
At the hairdressing-supply shop, Zhao Buxi carried a shopping basket full of everything he’d need. The goods were sold at retail prices, and the bill came to an awkward amount of loose change.
He happened to have cash and used it. If he couldn’t spend cash at a place openly advertising that it accepted it, where could he spend it?
The cashier couldn’t make change for the last twenty cents. “I can’t break the two jiao. Take two lollipops instead.”
On the counter sat an empty giant bubblegum jar, now filled with colorful Zhenzhibang lollipops.
Zhao Buxi took two and gave one to Lu Fengtong when he came out.
That evening, Zhao Buxi laid out everything he’d bought: scissors, electric clippers, and a sheet to spread on the floor.
He hadn’t bought a barber’s cape. An old shirt wrapped around the neck would do.
Everything was ready; now they only needed the right moment.
The light wasn’t good at night, so Zhao Buxi planned to cut Zhao Sheng’s hair on the balcony the following morning.
Zhao Sheng had no classes that morning.
“Are you going to the library tonight?”
Zhao Sheng had just finished dinner and was standing by the window admiring the view. He turned around. “Yeah, I made plans with Gu Xiaonan and the others. We’re meeting at seven.”
Zhao Buxi nodded. As soon as Zhao Sheng packed up and left, he took out his little literacy notebook.
It was filled with characters he’d learned in recent days. Fang Peizhi had written detailed explanations beneath some of them.
So many characters shared a pronunciation that without specific notes, they were easy to mix up.
He had other practice books, but this little one was the backbone of his lessons.
Some of the writing was his, some Fang Peizhi’s.
They used different-colored pens. To make the notes stand out, Fang Peizhi deliberately wrote meanings of words and characters in blue ballpoint ink, and corrected the pinyin Zhao Buxi had marked incorrectly.
Every page was crowded with the two men’s handwriting.
The notebook was a little bigger than his palm, convenient to slip into his pocket or bag when he went out. Zhao Buxi could take it out and review at any time.
Fang Peizhi wasn’t home yet, so Zhao decided to revise first. He followed the characters with his finger, reading each one he pointed to.
There was even academic research behind this method of pointing and reading: it helped people learn characters faster and remember them longer.
Time flew by. By the time Zhao Buxi had gone through everything, an astonishing hour had passed.
Still, there was no sign of anyone coming home.
It was half past eight. Fang Peizhi was usually back by now.
He sent a message to the contact saved as Bing Duoduo: “Not home yet?”
These past two days he’d learned the character pin, and discovered that when he’d tried to label Fang Peizhi “Pinduoduo,” he’d accidentally typed “Bing Duoduo.”
It amused him, so he hadn’t changed it.
Fang was evidently busy. Nearly half an hour passed before the reply came: “Working late tonight. Not coming back.”
“Go to my room and learn twenty words on your own. I’ll test you on all of them tomorrow.”
High in a brightly lit office building, Fang Peizhi leaned back on the sofa and sent his message. After a full day of work, everyone in the office looked a little wilted.
His business partner dropped into the seat beside him. “Something going on? Who’re you chatting with?”
“If you’re so free, go downstairs and help the security guards stop delivery riders,” Fang Peizhi said.
After sending Zhao Buxi the message, Fang Peizhi ordered a late-night meal for the staff as usual. They would be lucky to finish before two in the morning.
He had a meeting early the next day, so he planned to sleep at the office after finishing and return to campus in the morning.
Seeing him place an order, his partner asked, “What’s for supper tonight?”
“Don’t know. What does everyone want?” Fang Peizhi asked.
“Anything but dumplings again.” For the past half month, Fang Peizhi had practically become a dumpling fanatic. They’d had more than enough dumplings for late-night meals.
His partner had an assistant start a vote in the staff chat. Zhajiang noodles edged out stir-fried dishes by a narrow margin and became the undisputed champion of the night’s supper.
The restaurant packed more than a hundred servings in cardboard boxes and delivered them to the building entrance. Delivery riders weren’t allowed upstairs, so several employees went down to collect the food and get a little air.
Everyone got a bowl. Because some liked stronger flavors, Fang Peizhi had ordered extra individually packed portions of meat sauce.
In the office, his partner poured the meat sauce over chewy hand-pulled noodles, then added cucumber, shredded cabbage, and carrots. The rich, salty sauce coated each strand and set his mouth watering.
He lifted a chopstickful. “Do you want the employees to look forward to your visits, or dread them?”
“Every time you show up, it’s overtime. Every single time.”
In the employees’ eyes, Fang Peizhi had become a walking bundle of overtime pay and late-night meals.
Fang Peizhi ignored him and added sauce to his noodles. His partner stared in horror. “Hey! Have you been living in the ocean lately?”
Fang Peizhi had just added a second packet of sauce to a bowl that already contained one.
What on earth? Fang Peizhi had never liked his food this heavily seasoned. He used to avoid oily, salty dishes, but now one packet of zhajiang sauce wasn’t enough; he wanted two.
His partner wondered if all the overtime was making him hallucinate.
“Since when did your tastes get so salty?”
Looking at the noodles drenched in two packets of sauce, Fang Peizhi was a little stunned himself by the amount of salt. But when he’d tasted them with only one packet, they’d been completely bland. After a pause he said, “I’ve been craving salty food lately.”
“Brother, isn’t that a bit too salty?”
“If you want to fuss over everything, go downstairs and help the security guards stop delivery riders.”
His partner retorted, “I hope you die of salt poisoning.”
Zhao Sheng had no classes the next morning. With a new project about to demand all his attention, Zhao Buxi took one day off before going into full-on work mode.
With no need to get up early, the brothers enjoyed a rare lie-in.
When Zhao Sheng got up, Zhao Buxi had only just managed to open his eyes. He glanced at the clock: already nine.
A pang of guilt struck him.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so late. Sleeping too much actually made him feel more tired.
The brothers stretched, got out of bed, and washed up.
After breakfast, Zhao Buxi went onto the balcony to arrange the hairdressing tools he’d bought the day before.
It had been so long since his last haircut by his brother that Zhao Sheng remembered that terrible blunt fringe and began to lose his nerve.
“Bro, have you cut your own hair at all these past few years?” Zhao Sheng asked.
“Of course.” Zhao Buxi lied without blinking. In truth, the only hair he’d trimmed over the years had been a little of the cow’s coat during summer.
Zhao Sheng sat down nervously. When Zhao Buxi tied a cloth around his neck, it suddenly felt like he was heading to the execution grounds.
Zhao Sheng swallowed and sought reassurance. “Bro, can I trust you?”
Zhao Buxi gave him a smile. “Of course.”
Sunlight flooded the balcony, making the potted greenery shimmer in vivid shades of green, soothing to the eyes.
The windows were open to let in fresh air. Through the screens came the chirping of sparrows perched in the branches outside.
Zhao Buxi dampened Zhao Sheng’s hair. “Here we go.”
Zhao Sheng nodded. Zhao Buxi rather convincingly pinched a section of hair between two fingers, raised the scissors, and began snipping.
A haircut was supposed to start at the back, then move around to the fringe.
The back turned out rather nicely. Halfway through, Zhao Buxi brought over two small mirrors so Zhao Sheng could see.
Using the reflections, Zhao Sheng could see the back of his head in the mirror held behind him. His brother had made it look neat and stylish. The boulder weighing on his mind finally dropped away, and he said without a trace of worry:
“Go on, Bro.”
Zhao Buxi set the mirrors aside and began cutting Zhao Sheng’s hair in front. He reached the fringe and made a single snip.
“Ah.” Zhao Buxi’s face froze. The hair drifted down like feathers, and the scissors hung motionless in midair.
His brother had stopped moving, so Zhao Sheng opened one eye. “What is it, Bro?”
“Nothing.” Zhao Buxi forced himself to sound calm. “I’ll just tidy it up a little more.”
He made several more cuts. Then Zhao Buxi fell completely silent.
Now he’d really done it.
Zhao Sheng still had no idea what had happened.
At the entrance, the electronic lock beeped and the door swung open. Fang Peizhi, who hadn’t slept a wink the night before and had rushed back to campus for a morning meeting, came inside.
He looked remarkably alert. His stamina had always been excellent, and his face gave no hint that he’d spent the night awake.
After changing his shoes, Fang Peizhi entered the living room and saw the brothers on the balcony.
Hearing him, Zhao Buxi poked his head out. “Professor Fang, you’re back!”
Seeing one standing and the other seated, Fang Peizhi asked Zhao Buxi, “What are you doing?”
“Giving Little Tiger a haircut,” Zhao Buxi answered.
Fang Peizhi walked over and immediately spotted Zhao Sheng’s jagged, dog-chewed fringe, which the victim himself hadn’t yet seen.
“…”
He looked at Zhao Buxi. Zhao Buxi’s lips were pressed tightly together, his face saying We’re doomed.
Fang Peizhi’s gaze moved to the tools on the chair. They were surprisingly well equipped.
Sensing something was wrong from their expressions, Zhao Sheng asked, “Professor Fang, is my brother doing a good job?”
A thousand thoughts condensed into Fang Peizhi’s answer: “Not bad…”
Perhaps he simply couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. He took the scissors from Zhao Buxi. “Let me tidy it up for you.”
While working in the western wilderness, he’d had to cut his own hair. Barbershops were hard to find in those remote mountains, so he did have some experience.
Zhao Buxi asked, “You know how?”
“Would I take your scissors if I didn’t?” Fang Peizhi replied bluntly.
On hearing that Fang Peizhi knew how, Zhao Buxi pinned all his hopes on him, praying that Zhao Sheng’s hair might miraculously be brought back from the dead under those skilled hands.
“It’s all up to you, Professor Fang.” Zhao Buxi stepped aside.
Snip.
Fang Peizhi: …
Zhao Buxi: …
After just one cut, things seemed to be even worse.
Zhao Buxi met Fang’s eyes: I thought you knew what you were doing?
Fang Peizhi remained perfectly composed: It’s been a long time. I’m a little rusty.
After that, Zhao Sheng watched his brother’s face and his professor’s appear alternately in front of him. One snipped, then the other snipped.
By the time they finished, both men put down their scissors and stopped talking.
Silently, Zhao Buxi handed his brother a mirror.
Zhao Sheng took it. “…”
“PROFESSOR FANG! BRO!!!!”
As soon as the roar erupted, Fang Peizhi and Zhao Buxi could no longer contain their laughter.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Zhao Buxi doubled over, clutching his stomach. Fang Peizhi turned away, his shoulders shaking. Both were already laughing helplessly, yet every glance at Zhao Sheng supplied fresh material.
With one cut from this man and another from that, Zhao Sheng had ended up with the quintessential little-brother bowl cut.
The hairstyle on Zhao Sheng’s head was a collaborative work: first author, Zhao Buxi; second author, Fang Peizhi.
Looking at his reflection, Zhao Sheng was torn between outrage and laughter. “You’ve made me look Korean!”
Zhao Buxi hurriedly put an arm around his shoulders and soothed him. “Looks great. Korean guys are so polished.”
“All Korean men have cow-licked hair!”
“Don’t make your brother laugh anymore. I’m begging you.” Zhao Buxi collapsed against Zhao Sheng’s shoulder, laughing too hard to stand straight.
Zhao Sheng’s haircut wasn’t ugly, strictly speaking, but compared with his old one it was comical.
In the end, Zhao Buxi and Fang Peizhi looked up tutorials online and clipped away the particularly awkward hair at the front of Zhao Sheng’s head. Only then did the result become presentable.
Zhao Sheng decided that, from now on, a twenty-yuan haircut was better left to a barbershop.
In the afternoon, Zhao Sheng went to class, Fang Peizhi returned to his room for some catch-up sleep, and Zhao Buxi practiced writing in the living room.
He’d practiced for days, yet his characters were still crooked.
Constant dripping wears away stone.
He reminded himself of that.
Fang Peizhi, having been awake all night, slept straight through to seven-thirty in the evening. It was nearly dark when he woke.
He came out and saw Zhao Buxi swatting mosquitoes. “Come in. Time for your test.”
“You’ve slept all day. Aren’t you going to eat?” Zhao Buxi asked.
Now that Zhao Buxi mentioned it, Fang did feel a little hungry.
Zhao Buxi hadn’t eaten dinner either. “Let’s eat first. I found a barbecue place near the east gate the other day. Want to go?”
“I’ll change,” Fang Peizhi said.
Once Fang changed, they went out together.
They strolled along and reached the barbecue restaurant. Summer evenings were the busiest time for barbecue places.
University students filled every seat inside and at the small tables outside.
They considered going elsewhere, but the smell was irresistible, so they stood by the roadside to wait.
Zhao held a menu that looked more like a promotional flyer, handed over by the proprietress.
Before ordering, Zhao Buxi asked, “You do eat barbecue, right?”
Fang Peizhi gave him a look. “I’m not that fussy.”
Zhao Buxi handed him the menu, since he still couldn’t recognize all the characters. “I want ten lamb skewers and ten beef skewers.”
Fang Peizhi added his own choices, ticking boxes and writing numbers on the menu. “Anything else?”
“What else is there?”
“Chicken hearts, kidneys, pork skirt, tofu skin…” Fang Peizhi read off the options.
Zhao Buxi chose a few more things and picked Arctic Ocean soda to drink. Zhao Buxi asked, “What do you want?”
He headed toward the refrigerator to get the drinks.
“Beer,” Fang Peizhi said.
Elio’s Notes: The narration’s mountains-collapsing imagery recalls Li Bai’s classical poem The Hard Road to Shu. Fujiya is a Japanese confectionery company whose child mascot has a distinctive expression, invoked to describe Zhao Buxi’s haircutting face.