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away, and still you sink your fangs into me? In a few years, when your teeth are grown and your wings are strong, you'll be ready to chew me up and spit me out! Well, you little bastard, I'll kill you with my own hands before I let that happen!’ Mother was still cursing when she picked up a turnip as long as my arm, one she'd brought up from the cellar that morning, and broke it over my head. I felt as if my head had exploded and I saw half a turnip fly off somewhere just as the other half pounded my head, over and over and over. It hurt, but not unbearably. For a worthless child like me, that sort of pain is like the powerful Zhang Fei snacking on bean sprouts, easy as one, two, three. But I made it look like she'd knocked me senseless and let my head sag to the side. She grabbed my ear and pulled my head up straight. ‘If you think you can fool me into thinking I've killed you, you're very much mistaken. You can roll your eyes, you can foam at the mouth, you can have a fainting spell. You're very much alive, but even if you're not I'm going to shave that scabby head of yours! If I, Yang Yuzhen, can't do that, then I've got no business being your mother!’ She put a basin on top of the stool in front of me and pushed my head down into the hot water. It was really hot—hot enough to debristle a hog—and I could no longer hold back. Glug glug glug…‘Yang Yuzhen, you stinking old woman, Yang Yuzhen, I'm going to have my dieh finish you off with that donkey dick of his!’ That filthy, disgusting curse really hit home, for I heard her screech just before a hailstorm of fists descended on my head. I screamed for all I was worth—it was my only chance for a miracle. Hoping some demon or ghost or the gods of heaven and earth would hurry up and put an end to the torture, I'd have gladly banged my head in three—no, make that six, or nine—loud kowtows to anyone who came to my rescue. Hell, I'd have called him Daddy, Dear Daddy. But it was Mother—no, not Mother, Yang Yuzhen, that bloodthirsty old woman, the hag my dieh had abandoned, who walked up, a yellow plastic apron round her waist, sleeves rolled up, a straight razor in her hand, creases in her forehead. Shave my head? She was going to cut it off! ‘Help!’ I shouted. ‘Help…murder…Yang Yuzhen is going to murder me…’ I guess my shouts weren't as effective as I thought, because her rage was abruptly replaced by snorts of laughter. ‘You little swine, is that the best you can come up with?’ I turned to see a bunch of more fortunate children—those lucky fellows—at our gate craning their necks to see what was going on inside—Yao Qi's son Fengshou, Chen Gan's son Pingdu, Big Ears’ son Pidou, and Song Gujia's daughter Feng'e…I'd stopped hanging out with that crowd since my dieh ran off, not willingly, Dieh, but because I didn't have the time. Yang Yuzhen yanked me out of school and, at my young age, turned me into a coolie labourer, working me ten times harder than a poor cowherd in the old society. She got me wondering if she was really my mother. Tell me, Dieh, was I some cast-off baby born out of wedlock that you brought home from that run-down kiln where they made earthen crockpots? No real mother could bear to treat her child as mercilessly as she treats me. I guess I've lived long enough, so go ahead, Yang Yuzhen, kill me in front of those children. I felt the cold steel of her razor on my scalp. The moment of danger had arrived! I scrunched down my neck, like a threatened turtle. Emboldened by the sight, the children, like rats that had licked the cat's arse, moved in, through the gate and into our yard, drawing closer and closer to the house until they were standing just beyond the door, giggling and watching the comedy play out in front of them. ‘Aren't you ashamed to be crying like that? Especially in front of your friends. Fengshou, Pingdu, Pidou, do you cry when you're getting your heads shaved?’ ‘No,’ chorused Pingdu and Pidou. ‘Why should we? It feels good.’ ‘You hear that?’ She waved the clippers in front of me. ‘A tiger doesn't eat her young. What makes you think your mother would do anything to hurt you?’ While I was dredging up all those bad memories of the shaved-head incident, Fan Zhaoxia, owner of Beauty Hair Salon, walked in from one of the inner rooms, wearing a white smock, her hands in her pockets and looking like a woman's doctor. Tall and slim, she had a full head of black hair and fair skin