80% of husbands are unreliable

page views:1 Publication date:2023-04-05

On the short 200-meter-long Guangji Road, it's hard to say whether hope or despair has the upper hand. Nestled halfway up a hill in Hangzhou, Guangji Road is neither bustling, nor tranquil, nor particularly beautiful, making it seem very close to "death." Yet, the fast-food restaurants, small hotels, and mini-supermarkets lining the street exude a vibrant, everyday life. Among these shops catering to patients is a wig shop whose name can't even be found on map navigation sites. The owner, Ms. Guan, has been running this business for nearly 20 years, since 1999. A survey conducted by the American Society of Clinical Oncology shows that oncologists are most concerned about the safety and efficacy of drugs, while cancer patients are most concerned about quality of life issues such as hair loss, nausea, and vomiting.
This is the "theoretical basis" for the survival of wig shops to this day, while in the eyes of chemotherapy patients, wigs represent their hope and dignity in the face of illness.
Choosing a wig is a process of building confidence and hope.
The sun was shining brightly on Thursday morning last week. The proprietress was knitting a sweater while leaning against a low table by the door. She had never advertised this small shop of just over 20 square meters, but the shop's open design and the display of more than 120 wigs on three walls made it the best-selling wig shop around the cancer hospital.
In the deepest corner of the shop, there's a reclining chair for shampooing, next to a seat and a mirror. The proprietress also runs a hair salon. "Shaving heads is a basic need for chemotherapy patients," she explains. "Some patients buy tools to shave themselves, but their hair grows back in a few days, sticking to their scalp and causing discomfort when they sleep, so they have to come back for a full shave." She explains that she uses electric clippers, which can shave the roots as well. At 10 a.m., the first customer arrives, a woman in her thirties with shoulder-length hair, slightly split at the ends, and lacking shine, clearly neglected for a long time. "Do you have long wigs?" she asks. The customer is a rare young person in the shop. The 44-year-old proprietress follows only one rule when addressing customers—those younger than her are called "beautiful lady," and those older are called "elder sister."
"Beautiful lady, everything here is a short style. Short hair is easy to manage. After chemotherapy, your hair will grow to this length, and you won't need a wig anymore." The proprietress always used such hopeful sentences to her customers. The young woman walked towards the corner hairdressing area. "I'll shave it all off first and then choose."
The young woman sat on the reclining chair at the shampoo shop. "Be careful, don't touch me here," she said, pointing to her chest. "I just had surgery." "Don't worry, I could tell as soon as you walked in," the proprietress replied, her hands working tirelessly. Her left hand turned on the tap, while her right hand curled the young woman's hair. The woman's surname was Liu. She wasn't a talkative person, and the proprietress wasn't one to pry into others' privacy—unlike most talkative sales assistants and hairdressers in the world. In this small shop, silence was the dominant theme. Xiao Liu couldn't bear to watch her hair fall in clumps, so she kept her eyes closed the entire time. When she opened them again, her eyes were instantly red.
"The wigs are all here. Take a look and see which one you like," the proprietress said, sweeping up the hair on the floor. "There are only about a dozen styles. The differences are mainly in color and whether the ears are covered. These can all be fixed."
Xiao Liu, who had just had her head shaved, clearly felt the cold. She put on the hood of her down jacket and started looking at the walls on her right, one by one.
In most cases, choosing a wig is a long process. Xiaoliu tried on wigs again and again, but none of them satisfied her. "After all, they are wigs, so they can't look exactly like the original hairstyle." The shop owner accompanied Xiaoliu, picking out one wig after another for her.
Companionship is what single customers need most.
Forty minutes later, Xiaoliu emerged wearing a wig that cost over 100 yuan. Her face shone brighter than when she entered. For chemotherapy patients, wigs represent confidence and hope in fighting tumors, and the process of choosing a wig is a highly ritualistic process of establishing information and hope. This process was particularly effective for Xiaoliu.
"Take care." The proprietress said that this is the most standard farewell phrase, just like "Hello," which she hasn't said in 20 years. "Come again next time" is an absolute taboo in the store.
Ninety percent of the customers were women, and one-third were regular customers.
Even though they never say "Come again next time," a third of the customers in this wig shop are still regulars. The owner doesn't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. "You know, cancer patients, you don't see them for a year or two, you don't know if they're cured or they've just passed away." And when they become repeat customers, it means that the cancer hasn't been completely eradicated from their bodies.
Two hours after Xiaoliu left, another person walked into the wig shop. The customer was a man in his early fifties, with a buzz cut, a thin face, but bright eyes. "What do you need?" the proprietress asked, putting down a half-finished sweater she was knitting. He looked at the proprietress, then stepped outside to look at the shop's name, before turning back to her. "I'm here to shave my head. Are you still the owner?"
"Sigh," the landlady sighed, "It's all fate."
The proprietress, a believer in fate, still goes to the provincial cancer hospital twice a year for a checkup at her own expense, with a breast exam being the main focus each time. "I've thought it through long ago. If I get cancer, I definitely won't do chemotherapy, and I won't see any more doctors. I'll just let things take their course." After seeing Old Chen off, the proprietress picked up her knitting needles again, her fingers flying up and down. "It's too painful—physical pain, psychological pain, and my family is in pain too."
80% of husbands are unreliable
"Look at the restaurant across the street, patients often vomit right after eating, just as they get to the door. It's obvious they've just finished chemotherapy," the restaurant owner said. The patients' faces are etched with their suffering, and she doesn't want to bear it. The pain of the families is vividly reflected in the companions of the patients. "So many patients come with their husbands to choose wigs, but I think 80% of those husbands are unreliable," she said. Some customers even spend two hours choosing a suitable wig. When they are accompanied by their children, the children offer opinions and critique the look, while the husbands' favorite thing to do is let their wives choose alone while they play on their phones or smoke at the door.
Last month, a typical husband came into the store and asked, "How much are the wigs?" as soon as he entered.
"Those in the glass display case are the most expensive, over 1000 each, the others are a couple hundred or a few dozen yuan," the shopkeeper said. "How about those for a few dozen yuan?" the husband said, turning to his wife.
The wife, timid and silent, picked up a wig she liked and began to examine it. Before she'd even finished three, her husband impatiently interrupted her, "Alright, alright, they all look the same." He said, walking towards the door, "Hurry up and pick one; we need to pick up medicine later." The wife didn't continue choosing, gave the shopkeeper an apologetic look, and followed her husband out the door.
"This is when the true bond between husband and wife is most evident," the proprietress recalled the couple, shaking her head. "In the end, a woman still has to rely on herself."
Twenty years of experience in the industry have left the shop owner somewhat disillusioned. She doesn't always smile or talk in the shop. She understands the customers' hardships and pain; it's become second nature to her, unspoken yet deeply felt. "Boss lady, I'm here again!" At 4 PM, just as the Qianjiang Evening News reporter was about to leave the wig shop, an elderly man in his sixties with a non-local accent walked in, handed the owner a yuan, and said, "I still owe you a yuan for the towel I bought yesterday, thank you!"
"You're welcome. Are you about to be discharged?" The proprietress was already used to judging from the faces of each customer to know which stage of their treatment they and their families were at.
"Yes, my old lady is about to be discharged from the hospital. We're taking the train home tonight!" Joy radiated from every wrinkle on his face. This was the smallest sale the landlady had made this week, and also the happiest moment of her life.

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