Chapter Seven: Degrees of Defiance

A violent rainstorm brought coolness to Haizhou for only half a day; by the next morning, the heat returned with a vengeance, as oppressive as a dog panting in the sun.

After breakfast, Li Mu’s parents took the commuter bus to work. Once they had left, the phone in Li Mu’s home began ringing incessantly from nine o’clock onward, all calls from his classmates.

Some called to ask how he performed in the college entrance exam; others, impatient to wait for the official score estimation two days later, wanted to confirm certain questions from the science test paper with him; still others—his closest friends from high school—invited him to the internet café for an all-night session.

The most steadfast of these friends was Zhao Kang, Li Mu’s childhood companion, who lived in the same neighborhood. Nearly everyone in their community worked at Xiling Coal Mine, including Zhao Kang’s parents. The two had played together since they wore split-bottomed pants as toddlers, shared the same class in the children’s school during primary years, and although they were in separate classes through middle and high school, they attended the same institutions and maintained a strong bond throughout their youth.

However, Zhao Kang hadn’t performed well in this year’s college entrance exam. He thought he could cross the threshold for undergraduate admission, but fell short by nearly twenty points. Though he intended to enroll in a technical college as his second choice, his proud parents insisted he repeat his senior year. That year, Zhao Kang’s rebellious streak intensified; in the second semester, he had a fierce argument with his family and ran away from home.

Li Mu, then in university, tried repeatedly to contact Zhao Kang, but the boy’s stubbornness was unmatched; not even his parents could reach him. Each year during the Spring Festival, Li Mu would receive a brief phone call from Zhao Kang—just a report of safety.

Every New Year’s afterward, Li Mu’s phone would ring, always from a payphone somewhere in China, the location changing each time. The caller spoke only six words: “Brother, Happy New Year.” Before Li Mu could respond, the line would disconnect; calling back would reach either no one, or the payphone’s attendant.

Li Mu knew it was Zhao Kang, a habit the latter maintained for over ten years. Yet Li Mu had no knowledge of Zhao Kang’s life during that decade—whether he was well, happy, or suffering.

Thinking of him, Li Mu couldn’t help but feel a pang of melancholy.

Zhao Kang’s call this morning was to suggest Li Mu find a good excuse so they could go to the internet café that night. But Li Mu’s mind was consumed by “Stone Age,” the popular game of the moment, so he said, “Are your parents at work yet? If they’ve left, let’s have lunch together, and head to the internet café right after.”

“Alright, let’s have KFC for lunch. My treat.”

At the beginning of 2001, Haizhou welcomed its first KFC. The business was so brisk it was unimaginable in later years; queues often extended out the door, even onto the street. Though the fever had cooled somewhat after six months, KFC remained the symbol of trendiness among the youth.

Li Mu couldn’t help but advise, “Why KFC? It’s all junk food. Let’s just find a restaurant and order a couple of dishes.”

“Hah!” Zhao Kang scoffed, “KFC’s burgers are amazing. I hardly ever indulge even once a month, and now I’m treating you—how could you complain?”

Li Mu relented, “Alright, KFC it is. Noon?”

“Deal. I’ll come over to your place first.”

No sooner had he hung up with Zhao Kang than the phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“Li Mu?” A woman’s voice, melodious and pleasant.

“Wan-jie?”

“You have sharp ears!” Chen Wan laughed over the phone. “Where exactly do you live? I’d like to pay you a visit.”

Li Mu smiled, “My parents aren’t home. Is it really appropriate for a young lady to come to my house?”

“What’s inappropriate about it?” Chen Wan protested, muttering, “You’re just a little rascal, and as your elder sister, I can’t come see you?”

Little rascal…

Li Mu absentmindedly tugged at the elastic waistband of his shorts and underwear with his right thumb, glanced downward, and murmured, “I’ve been battle-ready for years already.”

He gave her his address, to which Chen Wan replied, “Wait for me, I’ll ride my bicycle over.”

“Not driving today?” Li Mu teased.

“Drive what? Wait for me at home!”

After giving her directions, Li Mu pushed open his front door. His building was a five-story red-brick affair; his family lived on the ground floor. Since it was company housing, no one cared about modifications, so every unit on the first floor had fenced in a small yard and built three extra rooms.

Last year, Li Mu’s family erected the yard wall, laid a concrete floor, and constructed three rooms at a cost of nearly thirty thousand yuan. But the value was excellent: not only did they have both house and yard, but the flat-roofed rooms provided perfect space for drying clothes and bedding.

Li Mu searched the clothes rack for a plain white cotton V-neck T-shirt. Compared to the more flamboyant options, this simple style was the only one he found acceptable.

With a beautiful woman about to visit, Li Mu made a special trip to the bathroom to tidy himself up. Gazing at his own haggard reflection, he found every aspect unsatisfactory.

The main culprit was his bowl-cut student hairstyle, which made him appear lifeless and somewhat effeminate. Most annoying was the patch of black fuzz above his lip—a universal trait among adolescent boys of the era. His parents forbade shaving, insisting it would grow thicker and uglier, not realizing that in a few years, young women would be infatuated with stubbled men.

Without hesitation, Li Mu took his father’s razor and shaved the fuzz clean off. Now his face looked much fresher, somewhat pleasing.

“I need a haircut,” he declared.

Resolved, he called Chen Wan back, telling her to meet him at the hair salon by the neighborhood entrance. He then retrieved his savings from three years of high school—five hundred eighty yuan—slipped one hundred eighty into his pocket, donned shorts and flip-flops, and headed out.

He sat down in the five-yuan wash-cut-blow salon at the gate, and said to the stylist sporting a flamboyant “Shamate” look, “Excuse me, could you cut me a not-so-ridiculous ‘spiky’ hairstyle?”

The blond Shamate stylist looked at Li Mu, perplexed. “Bro, what’s a ‘spiky’ hairstyle?”

Li Mu was speechless.

Boys of this era rarely found a hairstyle that suited them. Most sported crew cuts resembling helicopter landing pads, or bowl cuts like Li Mu’s. The trendier ones grew their hair long and dyed it ever brighter, and before long, ended up with the notorious Shamate look.

The ‘spiky’ cut was something Li Mu only adopted in university, at a girl’s suggestion. After trying it, he realized that the true test of a handsome man was short hair.

Especially the style popularized by Edison Chen in those days: sides cropped nearly to a buzz, the top just slightly longer and styled upright with gel. This look was understated, exposed the facial features, and highlighted the angular masculinity of the face. It was not only energetic but also cool and handsome, timeless even in 2016.

Most importantly, the style conveyed a natural ‘bad boy’ vibe, very attractive to girls.

Li Mu wasn’t as striking as Edison Chen, but he certainly qualified as a charismatic, good-looking young man.

After Li Mu explained, the Shamate stylist regarded him with a hint of pity, as if Li Mu were hopelessly old-fashioned. He flicked his own long bangs with pride and said, “Bro, your bowl cut is perfect for my style. Let me fix it up for you—a slanted fringe, a couple more months of growth, you’ll be absolutely stunning!”

Li Mu waited for him to finish showing off, then asked, “If I follow your advice, how much will you pay me?”

“That’s not how it works…” The stylist chuckled awkwardly. “I’m doing you a favor, you know. With this hairstyle, you’ll pick up girls at the internet café, guaranteed!”

Li Mu replied, “I don’t want to pick up girls at the internet café.”

“If not the internet café, then where?” The stylist was baffled.

“At university,” Li Mu said, prompting him, “Just cut it as I said. I’m from Xiling Coal Mine neighborhood, you know—a local snake. If you botch it, I might not pay.”

The Shamate stylist looked sullen. He knew Li Mu was joking, but the coal mine workers’ kids were not to be trifled with; when trouble brewed, dozens or even hundreds could show up in force, a scene that few could handle.

Though the stylist’s taste was questionable, his skills were decent. With Li Mu’s guidance, in ten minutes the ‘spiky’ style took shape. After clipping the sides, Li Mu directed him to use thinning shears on the slightly longer hair atop his head. Washed and dried, a touch of mousse gave it a messy, lively look—an edgy spiky cut was born.

Looking at himself in the mirror, the Shamate stylist felt a pang—his own look was equally edgy, but the difference was stark. Li Mu’s carried the cool, cinematic aura of a Hong Kong bad boy, while his own radiated the rustic vibe of a semi-rural hoodlum.

Li Mu was satisfied, stood up, and took out his money. “Do you have a new bottle of mousse? I’ll take one—add it to the bill.”

The stylist paused, then quickly fetched a new bottle, handing it over with a touch of respect. “The haircut’s free, just pay cost for the mousse—ten yuan.”

Li Mu was amused; the young man was rather interesting, giving him a free haircut. Still, he handed over two ten-yuan notes and said, “Give me change.”