Wen Shuheng (GL) · Chat

The sweltering heat of a midsummer afternoon hovered over the old alleyway. The leaves of the plane trees drooped under the sun, and the relentless hum of cicadas saturated the air. With the car window rolled halfway down, the breeze drifted in carrying the faint, fresh scent of foliage as the car slowly drove into the narrow alley tucked within the folds of the old district. The street was too narrow to venture any deeper, so your mother smoothly pulled over to the curb and killed the engine. This was the first time any of you had visited Hengshu. Having heard a neighbor casually mention that there was a quiet, honest little hair salon in the alley with fair prices and good craftsmanship, you decided to come give it a try. The three of you got out of the car one after another and walked deeper into the alley, stepping over the swaying patches of tree shade. Only after rounding the old plane tree did the faded, weathered wooden sign come into view—*Hengshu*. None of you were familiar with the place. You reached out, took hold of the old wooden handle, and pushed it gently. The old sliding door rolled over the dust in its tracks, letting out a long, languid creak, as if peeling back an obscure fragment of time. The clamor, heat waves, and traffic noise outside were shut out all at once; the moment you stepped inside, your heart inexplicably settled. The shop was surprisingly simple—no trendy decor, no flashy posters. A massive vintage full-length mirror took up an entire wall, its solid wood frame stripped of all paint, the glass veiled in a soft, hazy sheen. Two retro barber chairs stood side by side before the mirror, their black leather upholstery creased with age and their metal bases worn to a muted, gentle luster. In the rearmost corner was a shampoo station featuring a heavy white porcelain basin, its brass faucet ringed with faint green rust blooming from dried watermarks. Flakes peeled from a few spots on the yellowed lime plaster walls. Wires ran along the baseboards, neatly secured by small white clips. Overhead hung only a single large circular ceiling lamp, casting down a pool of warm yellow light in which specks of dust slowly drifted. An old fan in the corner turned lazily, sending out a gentle, lukewarm breeze. On a low wooden counter beside the mirror, scissors, combs, neck brushes, and a few modest bottles of hair care products were arranged in neat order. That was all. Wen Shuheng was the only person in the entire shop. With her eyes downcast, she leaned over the wooden counter, meticulously wiping down a pair of silver-handled scissors with a piece of gray flannel. Her thick, jet-black hair fell loosely over her shoulders. A few strands dampened by light perspiration clung to her temples and the curve of her neck. Her black, open-knit, sleeveless turtleneck accentuated her slender build, and her arm-sleeves had slipped down to her forearms, revealing the thin calluses on her fingertips. She was utterly absorbed in what she was doing, quiet enough to almost blend into her surroundings, completely unprepared to welcome new customers today. The sound of the sliding door broke her concentration. Wen Shuheng slowly raised her eyes. Her gaze drifted toward the doorway, taking in the unfamiliar family of three—your poised, gentle mother, you, and your lively little brother, who was looking around with wide-eyed curiosity. A faint, fleeting trace of melancholy flickered across the depths of her eyes, vanishing almost instantly. She had severed all ties with her family of origin long ago. Such a simple outing—a family chancing upon a small shop, arriving together with a sense of fresh anticipation—was an ordinary moment of life she would never have again. That flicker of emotion was so light as to be practically imperceptible, and she tucked it away properly in the blink of an eye, leaving behind not a single trace. Setting down the scissors, her fingertips curled slightly before she offered a clean, gentle smile. Her voice was clear, soft, and soothing, carrying the perfectly measured politeness and warmth for first-time guests: "Welcome. Is this your first time here? It's hot out—come in and cool off. Who would like to go first?" Your mother smiled somewhat sheepishly, admitting that she had sought the place out based on a recommendation, wanting to give your brother a neat, fresh haircut and get a slight trim for you as well. Your brother looked around inquisitively, lightly touching the armrest of the barber chair with his hand as he chattered to your mother about the pretty trees in the alley. Because it was the first visit, everyone was still slightly reserved and courteous. Wen Shuheng was exceptionally patient, carefully asking about the desired length and style, softly confirming each step along the way. Her gentle, thoughtful manner gradually melted away the initial awkwardness of walking into a new place. You stood to the side, watching. In the past, you might not have understood where this profound gentleness came from. Only now did you faintly realize that precisely because she had personally lost the bonds meant to be closest and seen how deeply family could hurt, she cherished every whole, warm moment of family companionship with extra care. She gave away every bit of the cozy, everyday warmth she herself could never have, offering it unstintingly to strangers. She remained calm and composed throughout, keeping small talk to a minimum, with an easygoing demeanor that made everyone feel at ease. Halfway through the cut, your brother tilted his head, naturally tugging at your mother's sleeve and asking in a bright, wheedling voice: "Mom, when we finish and head back, can you drive me to get some iced grapes?" At that exact instant, the wrist with which Wen Shuheng held the comb paused for the briefest fraction of a beat. It was so fleeting that it felt like an illusion, and no one noticed. In the next second, her movements resumed smoothly. The teeth of the comb glided softly through the strands of hair. The expression on her face remained unchanged as she quietly continued her work. The fan spun round after round, and the chirping of the cicadas drifted faintly through the walls. This modest, quiet little shop had welcomed a brand-new set of guests, cradling your family's serendipitous, peaceful afternoon—while also hiding the silent, unspoken void that belonged to her alone. Once everything was done, the hair was swept and tidied up neatly. Your mother asked for the price. Wen Shuheng cast her eyes down, casually straightening the barber cape, her voice light and straightforward: "Twenty for both of you altogether." The price was surprisingly modest. Your mother repeatedly remarked on what a great deal it was, paid promptly, thanked her sincerely, and smiled, saying she would definitely come again. Wen Shuheng's eyes crinkled into a gentle crescent as she gave a slight nod: "I'm glad you liked it. Take care on your way out." The sliding door creaked open once more. Standing deep within the warm yellow light, she quietly watched as the three of you walked side by side into the tree-dappled shade, got into the car, and slowly drove away, disappearing around the corner of the alley. The air gradually sank back into silence. She lowered her head and slipped the money into the drawer of the wooden counter without looking at it twice. Two empty barber chairs, a single hanging lamp, a turning fan. Once again, it was a long, slow summer that belonged solely to her.