When I was little, there was a household downstairs that hired a young girl from the countryside as a maid.

At the time, I was often kept inside to study. Adults believed children should stay put, behave, and not cause trouble. But I was unbearably lonely, so I would secretly sneak downstairs to play with her.

We didn’t share much language, and our conversations had no depth. But two lonely children don’t need much to draw close. She smiled all the time, sweetly, easily, like someone who was always meant to appear in my life.

One day, she suddenly cut off the long hair she had kept for over ten years. I felt an unbearable sense of loss and begged to keep the braid she had cut.

I clipped it onto my own head, imitating the Chinese immortals in paintings. Draped in a bedsheet trailing across the floor, waving a feather duster like a ritual object, I was convinced I was radiating celestial energy, playing until I nearly floated away.

A few days later, my head began to itch violently. The kindergarten teacher isolated me in a corner and said I had lice.

That night, my mother pressed my entire head over the sink and poured two large bottles of 57-degree sorghum liquor over my scalp. The sting felt like my brain was on fire. Towels were wrapped layer upon layer, then sealed with a plastic shower cap. I burned through the entire night like that.

I don’t remember what I was thinking then. Not at all. But I vividly remember the adults’ panic. The tension written across their faces. I didn’t think the situation was serious. A child’s world is always softer than an adult’s.

After that, I was forbidden to see her again. Not long later, she was sent back to the countryside. I thought I would forget all this. Childhood memories are usually fragmented, blurred, incomplete. Yet this one remained, burned deeply into my mind.

I don’t remember her name. I don’t remember her face. I only remember how she smiled, sweetly, like a small white flower scattered by the wind.

But I will always remember that braid.

When it rested in my palm, it still carried the warmth of her scalp. Thick, solid, textured with life. Between each twist of the braid, little strands of hair escaped and wandered off. It didn’t belong to me, yet it quietly became part of my memory.

Perhaps that was the first time in my life I truly touched another living being.

And she left so quickly, like a small soul that leapt once inside my room, then vanished.

All I remember is this: that braid was heavy. Maybe because it carried a stretch of time I can never return to.



—— XC Scribbles · 參拾貳 XXXII 🧵