The Story of Hair

On a serene Sunday morning, I peeled away the calendar’s worn page to reveal the fresh date, and upon a second glance, I mused,

“Ah, October 10th—why, today is National Day. Yet, there’s no trace of its mention here.”

As fate would have it, my elder acquaintance, Mr. N, was paying me a visit for a casual chat. Upon hearing my observation, he responded with a tinge of irritation,

“They’re correct! If they choose to forget, what can you do? And if you remember, what does it change?”

Mr. N has always been somewhat eccentric, prone to bouts of unnecessary anger and to uttering words that skirt the edges of social norms. Typically, I let him vent without interruption; once he has aired his grievances, the matter is settled.

He elaborated,

“I am particularly struck by the manner in which National Day is observed in Beijing. Early in the morning, the police knock on doors, commanding, ‘Hang the flags.’ ‘Yes, hang the flags!’ The residents, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, emerge to hoist a tattered piece of foreign fabric. This ritual continues until nightfall, when they finally lower the flags and close their doors; those who occasionally slip the mind do so until the following morning.

“They have forgotten the commemoration, and in turn, the commemoration has forgotten them.

“I too have become one of the forgotten, a person who has lost touch with commemoration. If I were to recall, the events surrounding the inaugural National Day would flood my mind, rendering me restless and uneasy.

“The faces of so many departed friends float before my eyes. Young men, after years of toil, felled by a single bullet; others, after a failed uprising, subjected to over a month of brutal torture in prison; and some, with dreams of a distant future, vanished without a trace, their final resting places unknown. They endured their lives amidst society’s cold laughter, curses, and persecution; now, even their graves are gradually succumbing to the sands of time, forgotten and forsaken.

“Such memories are too painful for me to bear.

“But let us speak of something more uplifting.”

Mr. N’s face brightened, and with a theatrical touch, he stroked his head and declared,

“What brings me the greatest joy is that since the first National Day, I no longer attract ridicule when I walk abroad.

“Do you realize, my friend, that hair has been both a cherished treasure and a source of strife for the Chinese people throughout history, causing so many to suffer over trivial matters?

“Our ancient ancestors seemed to have held a more lenient view of hair. According to the criminal code, the head is of utmost importance, hence decapitation is the most severe punishment; next in line are the genitals, making castration and imprisonment formidable penalties; whereas shaving the head is considered a minor offense. Yet, one can only ponder how many lives were ruined by the mere absence of hair.

“When we discuss the revolution, we often reference the atrocities of Yangzhou and Jiading, but these were merely tactics. To be frank, the Chinese resistance was not about losing the nation but about the indignity of wearing the queue.

“After the diehards were eliminated and the elders passed away, the queues became the norm, and then came the upheavals of Hong and Yang. My grandmother once told me that being a commoner at that time was a challenge; those who kept their hair were killed by the soldiers, while those with queues were slain by the rebels.

“I cannot fathom the number of Chinese who suffered, toiled, and perished over the seemingly insignificant issue of hair.”

Mr. N’s gaze drifted upward, as if lost in thought, before he continued,

“And now, the trials of hair have befallen me.

“When I ventured abroad to study, I shed my queue, not for any profound reason, but simply because it was too cumbersome. To my surprise, this act was met with disdain by some of my peers, whose queues were coiled atop their heads, and the supervisor was outraged, threatening to revoke my government stipend and send me back to China.

“But it wasn’t long before the supervisor himself had his queue forcibly removed and fled. Among those who剪 (shear/cut) was Zou Rong, the author of ‘The Revolutionary Army,’ who could no longer pursue his studies abroad and returned to Shanghai, where he eventually perished in a prison cell. His name has likely faded from your memory, hasn’t it?

“As the years passed, my family’s fortunes waned, and I faced the prospect of starvation unless I secured employment, compelling me to return to China. Upon my arrival in Shanghai, I promptly purchased an artificial queue for the going rate of two yuan and brought it home. My mother made no comment, but others, upon seeing me, would first scrutinize the queue, and upon discovering its artificial nature, they would sneer and brand me a criminal deserving of execution. One relative even considered reporting me to the authorities but was deterred by the fear that the revolution might succeed.

“I reasoned that it was better to be genuine than to rely on a counterfeit, so I discarded the fake queue and strutted through the streets in a Western suit.

“Every step I took was met with laughter and derision, with some even trailing behind, hurling insults like ‘This reckless fool!’ ‘This pseudo-foreigner!’

“I then abandoned Western attire for a traditional Chinese robe, which only intensified the ridicule.

“At my wit’s end, I armed myself with a walking stick and defended myself with vigor, which over time, subdued the jeers. However, in unfamiliar territories, the mockery persisted.

“This episode has left a lasting sorrow in my heart, one that I still recall to this day. While studying abroad, I came across a newspaper article about Dr. Honda, who traveled through Southeast Asia and China. Unable to speak the local languages, he was asked how he managed to navigate. He brandished his walking stick, stating, ‘This is their language; they understand it!’ I was indignant for days, only to find myself unwittingly emulating his actions, and they understood all too well.

“In the early years of the Xuantong era, I served as an academic supervisor at a local middle school. My colleagues kept their distance, and bureaucrats were vigilant, leaving me feeling as if I were trapped in an ice cellar or standing beside a scaffold. The sole reason for this treatment was the absence of a queue!

“One day, several students ventured into my room, declaring, ‘Sir, we wish to cut our queues.’ I objected, ‘That’s not advisable!’ They pressed, ‘Is it better to have a queue or not?’ I conceded, ‘No queue is preferable…’ They questioned, ‘Then why do you forbid it?’ I cautioned, ‘It’s unnecessary; it’s better to wait for now.’ They left, visibly disappointed, but they went ahead and cut their queues.

“The act sent ripples of shock through the community; yet, I feigned ignorance, allowing them to attend classes with their shaven heads among those who still bore queues.

“The trend of queue-cutting spread like wildfire; on the third day, six students from the Normal School also severed their queues, leading to their expulsion that very night. These six found themselves in a predicament—unable to remain at school or return home, and they had to endure the stigma of their ‘crime’ until over a month after the first National Day.

“As for me, I faced similar ridicule when I first arrived in Beijing during the winter of the Republic’s first year. However, those who once mocked me were eventually forced by the police to cut their queues, and I was no longer subjected to their scorn. Yet, I never ventured into the countryside.”

Mr. N’s expression shifted from one of pride to a somber look,

“Now, you idealists are clamoring for women to cut their hair, which will only lead to more unnecessary suffering!

“Aren’t there already women who, having cut their hair, are barred from enrolling in schools or have been expelled?

“Reform? Where is the weapon? Work-study programs? Where are the factories?

“Better to let it grow and marry into a family as a daughter-in-law: forgetting everything might still bring happiness, but if she clings to notions of equality and freedom, she will be condemned to a life of suffering!

“I want to borrow the words of Arlt to pose a question to you: You have promised a golden age to the descendants of these people, but what do you offer to these people themselves?

“Ah, until the Creator’s whip lands upon the back of China, China will remain unchanged, unwilling to alter even the slightest detail!

“Since your words carry no venom, why then do you label yourselves with the name ‘viper,’ inviting the destitute to strike you down?”

Mr. N’s discourse grew increasingly outlandish, but upon noticing my disinterest, he promptly fell silent, rose, and reached for his hat.

I inquired, “Leaving so soon?”

He confirmed, “Indeed, the heavens are about to weep.”

I saw him off in silence to the door.

Donning his hat, he said,

“Farewell! Please excuse my intrusion, but fortunately, tomorrow is not National Day, and we can all lay these matters to rest.”

(October 1920.)