Pow!

she was. Pidou's dieh was the butcher Big Ear, which made Pidou's niang Big Ear's wife. There was just one thing that kept her from looking exactly like Pidou's niang: I hadn't seen her for a long time and now she was sort of puffy, as if she had a meatball tucked in each cheek. I remembered her as having full eyebrows that swept across her forehead, the Goddess of Bad Luck. But she'd plucked them bare and replaced them with thin pencilled lines of green and red like caterpillars that dine on sesame leaves. She sat there holding a picture book in her hands, held as far out as her arms could reach—she was obviously farsighted. She hadn't looked up once since we entered, in the affected manner of a noblewoman who ignores a beggar. Shit! What are you but a self-satisfied, stinking old hag! No matter what you do—you could pull out every hair on your head, you could peel the skin from your face and you could colour your lips redder than pig's blood—you'd still be Pidou's niang and a butcher's old lady! Go ahead, ignore us—we can do the same to you! I sneaked a look at Father, who sat there remote and indifferent, quite aloof, actually, as distant as the sky on a cloudless day, as unapproachable as the head monk in a Shaolin Temple, as detached as a red-capped crane in a flock of chickens, as standoffish as a camel in a herd of sheep…The barber-chair was unoccupied, a soiled white smock covered with fine hairs draped over its back. The sight of all that hair made the back of my neck itch; and, when it occurred to me that it might be from Pidou's niang, the itch grew downright painful.

    I'd been obsessively protective of my head since childhood, something my father knew all too well. That was because every time I had a haircut I had hairs all over my body that itched worse than lice. I can count the haircuts I've submitted to in my life so far. After Father left, we had not only a pair of clippers in the house but also a pair of barber's shears and a Double Arrow straight razor. Admittedly, every item in this nearly complete set came from our scavenger days and, after Father left, Mother put these rusty instruments to use in the battle of the scalp—my scalp—to save money without having to rely upon favours from anyone. Fourth Brother Kui, a neighbour of ours, gave professional-quality haircuts but Mother was unwilling to seek his help. My screams usually proved which of us was losing the battle.

    Wise Monk, let me tell you about my worst haircut experience—and I'm only slightly exaggerating. When no amount of threats or inducements had any effect on me, Mother tied me to a chair to give me a New Year's haircut. She'd added plenty of muscle since Father left, and acquired a powerful grip. I tried anchoring myself to the floor, I tried rolling round like a donkey and I tried burying my head between my legs, like a dog, but nothing worked, and in the end I was strapped to the chair. I think I probably bit her on the wrist during our struggle, since my mouth was filled with the taste of burnt rubber. I was right, as I found out once I was strapped in and she examined her left wrist—it bled from two punctures and a dozen little purple tooth marks. A look of weary sadness spread across her face. I began to feel a bit of regret plus a bit of apprehension, but most of all a sense of satisfaction about what I'd done to her. Little guttural moans were followed by two lines of discoloured tears running down her cheeks. I was screaming at the top of my lungs and pretending I knew nothing about her injured hand or the look of sadness on her face; I wasn't sure what would happen next, but deep down I knew there was no escape. Sure enough, the tears stopped and the sad look went away. ‘You bastard,’ she smirked, ‘now you've done it, you little bastard. How dare you bite your mother! Merciful heavens,’ she said as she looked skyward, ‘open your eyes and look at the sorry excuse for a son I've raised! Not a son—a wolf, a contemptuous wolf! I've slaved to raise him, putting up with every shitty mess he made, and for what? So he can sink his teeth into me? I've endured back-breaking work, sweat by the bucketful and every imaginable indignity. They say the goldthread plant is bitter. Well, it's not as bitter as my life. They say vinegar is sour. Well, it's downright sweet compared to my life. After all that, this is what I ended up with! You haven't got all your teeth yet and your wings aren't hard enough to fly