The Corvid-Human Acoustic Archive

#ARCHIVE 06: THE HAIR DYE

Beijing, Autumn, 1978

“Oh, White Eagle is a lucky man.” Gao Yong’s face shifted into a facade of solemnity, his voice emitting that familiar, viscous baritone. “Rowan, don’t push yourself too hard. We aren’t the national team. You are the future pillar of the nation.”

“You’re so full of it,” Rowan replied, her frequency carrying a hint of playful reproach as she returned to the court.

The heat was blistering. Gao Yong sat in the stands, deliberately stiffening his short, thick torso. He twirled an imported sun umbrella, creating a rhythmic click-clack. He reached out, feigning a casual touch as Rowan wiped her sweat.

“That white hair of his — no matter how he dyes it black, it looks fake. He’s a part that was worn down by the friction of the era. To you, he isn’t light; he can only be a shadow.” The mouth of that “Hanging Ghost” vibrated with a loose magnetism, underscored by a sticky glottal tone.

“He has white hair?” Rowan’s handkerchief froze in mid-air.

I happened to be passing by. Hearing Gao Yong expose my secret, I wished I could turn into a volleyball and let Rowan spike me into oblivion.

She had never known what I looked like before the dye, nor did she know that the tiny privilege of “free haircut rights” was etched into Gao Yong’s very bones.

The loudspeakers in Compound No. 7 had been dismantled. My father’s authority was restored; the air was thick with the flattery of “Minister Bai.” Yet, I noticed his frequency had lost its former hardness. His words sounded like a loop of Mao’s Quotations — his standard audio track. Not lies, not truth, but a resonance filled with helplessness.

Driven by an inexplicable impulse, I went to the barbershop in the northwest corner of the compound. “Oh, haven’t seen you in years, young Bai,” the old barber greeted me.

The air there was forever saturated with the pungent, stinging scent of cheap ammonia. His scissors collided against the iron tray, producing a metallic ring that was both crystal clear and profoundly weary.

“You’re a university student now. Stop being so bohemian. Dye your hair.” I could feel his caution; his throat was tight, his heart rate slightly elevated.

I hesitated, then sat. As the “family of a high-ranking official,” I had the right to enjoy free haircuts and dyeing services here.

“You really are lucky. Just got a shipment of imported goods from Japan.” His mechanical, raspy voice echoed in the narrow room.

He pulled out an enamel bowl emblazoned with a red star and poured in a thick, black liquid. It made a muffled guji-guji sound.

As the black sludge coated my hair, I felt a physical “drop in temperature.” It wasn’t just a change in color; it was a reduction of wavelength. I closed my eyes. The dye was invading my hair fibers, producing the infinitesimal bi-bo snapping of chemical molecules.

Thirty minutes later, the rinse. The water striking the enamel basin roared with a sense of ultimate liberation. Yet, even after three washes, the lingering scent of that Japanese dye — a cold, industrial fragrance — clung stubbornly to my skull.

I stood in the sun and touched my hair. I had become a “normal person” fixed by high-grade reagents. Behind my sunglasses, the world remained a sterile white before twilight.

At the compound gate, Gao Yong intercepted my bicycle. His squinted eyes flashed a white light. He stared at my hair and let out a tiny, sharp tsk. “Looking sharp, White Eagle.”

I ignored him. My scalp was still itching; I reached up to scratch it. “Why so shy? Heh-heh.”

I was indeed embarrassed. Gao Yong’s father wasn’t high-ranking enough; he had no right to the free services at that barbershop. No wonder he was swallowing the viscous saliva of envy.

In the end, he took that envy and smeared it onto my heart in front of Rowan.