Pink Hair and the Thirty-Seven-Year-Old New Start

When I walked out of the Civil Affairs Bureau that afternoon, it wasn't dark yet, but I felt like the day was already over.

The little green book in my hand was thin, yet so heavy I could barely hold it with one hand. I stood on the steps for a few seconds, my mind a complete blank, yet filled with everything at once. My ex-wife—no, I should call her my "ex" now—walked ahead of me, her high heels clicking rhythmically on the pavement without a single glance back. We hadn't fought or had a messy scene; it was just that feeling of "forget it." That’s actually harder to take than a shouting match.

Fighting at least means you still care. "Forget it" means you can’t even be bothered to care anymore.

I glanced at my phone: 4:12 PM. Go home? To which home? The apartment was awarded to her. I’m temporarily staying in a rental near the office—twelve square meters, without even a decent table. It suddenly hit me that the place didn't deserve to be called a "home"; it wasn't even a "residence." It was just a box for sleeping.

I stood at the entrance for about five minutes. People passed by; some glanced at me, others didn't. A 37-year-old man in a faded white shirt, clutching a divorce certificate, staring into space on the steps—I imagine they’ve seen that plenty of times.

Finally, I decided to go for a drink.

Not the "drown your sorrows" kind of drinking, but because I truly had nowhere else to go. Friends? They were all at work. Parents? I hadn't told them we were processing the papers today; I was afraid of hearing my mother cry on the other end of the line. Thinking it over, I realized I couldn't find a single person to talk to. Over the years of marriage, my social circle had shrunk until it only had two people. Now, even those two were gone.

I walked into a roadside izakaya, a tiny place with six bar stools and two small tables. Since it was just after four, I was the only customer. The owner, a man in his forties, was wiping glasses. He nodded when he saw me come in.

"Do you have shaojiu?"

"Yes."

"A bottle, please."

The owner looked at me, likely reading something in my expression. He didn't ask questions. He brought the liquor and a side of edamame.

I poured the first glass and downed it in one go. The shaojiu burned my throat, but that stinging heat felt grounding. I stared at the wood grain on the bar, and my mind started replaying things—not any specific event, but everything tangled together like a pot of overcooked dumplings where the skins and fillings have separated and turned into a mess you can't even scoop up.

Eight years of marriage. Not long, but not short. It went from the early days when eating instant noodles in a cramped rental felt sweet, to living in a big apartment where we had nothing left to say. When did it start changing? I couldn't say. The third year? The fifth? It just happened slowly—moving from sharing everything to sharing nothing. She’d scroll through her phone, I’d watch TV; two people in one bed with an ocean between them.

We didn't have kids. I don't know whose "fault" it was, but we just never conceived. We went for checkups, and the doctors said both of us were normal and to just wait. We waited, and what finally arrived was a divorce agreement.

The day she said "let's get a divorce" was a perfectly ordinary Wednesday night. She had just showered, her hair was still wet, and she was sitting on the sofa in her old bathrobe. Her tone was as calm as if she were asking, "Should we try that new hotpot place tomorrow?"

I said, "Okay."

Just one word, and an eight-year marriage reached its full stop.

Thinking back, maybe we had both been enduring it for a long time, just waiting for the other to speak first. We're adults, after all; "face" and "dignity" are everything. No one wanted to be the "bad guy."

By my third glass, the door swung open.

A girl walked in, maybe in her early twenties, with hair dyed a vivid pink—the kind of bright pink that stood out sharply against the dim, yellow light of the izakaya. She was wearing an oversized denim jacket, a plaid skirt, and Dr. Martens. She looked like she’d just run off the stage of a music festival.

She sat at the far end of the bar, three seats away from me, and told the owner, "Boss, an order of fried chicken and an oolong tea."

I thought to myself: Coming to an izakaya for oolong tea? This girl is interesting.

The owner served the chicken. She took a bite, her eyes crinkling in a look of pure satisfaction. Then she noticed me watching her and flashed a smile: "The fried chicken here is amazing. Want an order?"

I was stunned. I didn't expect her to initiate a conversation.

"Sure, why not."

The owner added an order for me, and I went back to my drink. I figured it was just the usual polite banter between strangers, but then the girl picked up her glass and sat in the seat right next to me.

"Drinking alone is boring," she said. "I'll keep you company, even though I'm just having tea."

I didn't say anything, so she took it as a "yes."

"You look like you're in a bad mood," she said, mid-bite. "Heartbroken?"

"It's more complicated than that."

"Divorce?"

I turned to look at her. She had a "nailed it" look on her face.

"How did you know?"

"Just a guess. A man your age, drinking alone in an izakaya at 4:00 PM—it’s either unemployment or divorce." She paused. "Looking at your clothes, you don't look unemployed. Those guys dress way more casually than you."

I was amused by her logic, though my smile was forced.

"You're quite the observer."

"Of course. I'm a psychology major, junior year."

I said that explained it, and we started chatting about this and that. I didn't catch her name—it was something common—so I just thought of her as "Pinky," because that hair was impossible to ignore.

Pinky did most of the talking. She said her university was nearby and she’d just finished her last final exam. She was exhausted and wanted to treat herself to something good.

"Your parents don't mind the hair?" I asked.

"Oh, they mind. My mom calls me a delinquent, and my dad says I look like a parrot." She ruffled her hair with a proud look. "But I like it. Pink is beautiful; it makes me happy just looking at it. Look at this color—doesn't it look like strawberry cotton candy?"

I laughed again. This time, I actually meant it.

She said, "You know, you look much better when you smile. When you first walked in, you looked like the whole world owed you money."

"Was it that bad?"

"Yes. Really. The way you were sitting there pouring your drink... how do I put it... you looked like someone who had been abandoned by the entire world."

My hand holding the glass faltered.

She was right. I did feel abandoned. 37 years old, no house, no car—the car went to my ex—half my savings gone, and a mid-level management job that was going nowhere. I had no drive to climb higher and no desire to fall. Friends were fewer, parents were older, and I didn't even have someone to talk to.

"Let me tell you a story," Pinky said suddenly. "Don't find me too chatty."

"Go ahead."

She told me that during her freshman year, she fell for a senior. She liked him so much she chased him for an entire semester—bringing him breakfast every day, saving him seats, even writing his elective papers. Eventually, they got together. Three months later, he dumped her.

"Do you know why?" She looked at me, her eyes bright. "He said I was too loud. Being with me made him tired."

"Were you sad?"

"I was devastated. I cried for a week straight until my eyes were swollen like walnuts. my roommates were afraid I'd do something reckless." She took a sip of her oolong tea. "But then I realized: it wasn't that I was too loud; it was that he wasn't right for me. This is who I am. I talk a lot, I love to laugh, I like pink, I like fried chicken, and I like a lively atmosphere. These aren't flaws; he just wasn't the right person."

She spoke lightly, as if telling someone else's story. But I could tell that experience had actually hurt quite a bit.

"So you stopped looking for a boyfriend after that?"

"Of course not! Why would I stop? My current boyfriend is great. He also thinks I'm loud, but he says, 'When you're noisy, you're like a little sparrow—it's pretty cute.'" She laughed. "See? The exact same trait can look completely different to different people."

I suddenly felt that this twenty-something girl was much more "enlightened" than I was.

I poured another glass, but this time I didn't down it. I sipped slowly. The alcohol was kicking in; I felt a bit dizzy, but oddly clear-headed.

"Actually," I said, "it's not that my ex and I stopped loving each other. It’s just... we couldn't keep going."

Pinky didn't interrupt. She just listened quietly.

"When we first got together, she loved to laugh. She’d laugh at any corny joke I told, doubled over. Then, I don't know when, she stopped. I’d tell a joke, and she’d look at me with a blank face and say, 'Is something wrong with you?'"

"And then you stopped telling them?"

"I stopped."

"What about her? Did she change?"

I thought about it. "She changed too. She used to love cooking. On weekends, she’d make all sorts of dishes and post them on social media. Later, she started hating the grease in the kitchen and the hassle of washing dishes. We started ordering takeout. We did that for three years."

"Did you try to communicate?"

"I think so... but every conversation ended in a fight. She complained I didn't care about the household, and I complained she was too picky. Eventually, we both got 'smart' and stopped fighting. We just went into cold wars. The longest one lasted two weeks without a single word. Living under the same roof for two weeks, not saying a thing."

As I said this, my voice was flat, like I was reading a performance review. But as Pinky listened, her eyes turned red.

"You know," she said, "that's what I'm most afraid of. Two people being together and not talking is scarier than fighting. Fighting at least involves emotion. Not talking means there's nothing left—not even feelings."

I was stunned.

She was absolutely right.

The biggest problem between my ex and me wasn't who was right or wrong. It was that we had no "emotion" left for each other. No anger, no sadness, no expectation, no disappointment. Nothing. Like a glass of water left out too long, it had slowly evaporated until not even a water stain remained.

"Do you regret it?" Pinky asked. "Regret getting married, or regret the divorce?"

I thought for a long time.

"I don't regret the marriage, and I don't regret the divorce," I said. "I just feel... it’s a pity. Eight years isn't eight days."

Pinky nodded and didn't ask further.

We sat in silence for a while. The owner brought me another bottle, saying it was on the house. I nodded to him in thanks.

By the fifth glass, I was definitely feeling it. Pinky was still working on her chicken, her cheeks puffed out like a hamster.

"Tell me," I said, my tongue feeling a bit heavy, "why is a twenty-year-old girl like you meddling in the business of a middle-aged man?"

She swallowed her food and looked at me seriously. "Because of my dad."

"Your dad?"

"Yeah. My dad is about your age, almost forty. My parents almost got divorced last year."

I blinked.

"I was a sophomore then. My mom called me, crying, saying she wanted a divorce. I took an overnight train back home. When I got there, my dad was in the living room watching TV, and my mom was in the bedroom crying. Just a door between them, and neither would acknowledge the other."

"And then?"

"I stayed home for three days. I dragged them out to hike, to eat hotpot, to see a movie. And guess what?"

"What?"

"They didn't actually stop loving each other. Life had just become too dull, and they had forgotten how to love. My dad sprained his ankle on the mountain, and my mom was so worried she started crying. She helped him all the way down. In that moment, I knew they wouldn't go through with it."

She paused and looked at me. "So when I saw you sitting here drinking gloomily, it reminded me of my dad. He had that exact same expression—that look of... feeling like a failure."

I looked down at the remaining liquor in my glass and said nothing.

"Big brother," she called out to me, "I'm not saying you and your ex have a chance. I just want to tell you that you aren't alone. What's wrong with being 37? So what if you're divorced? Your life isn't even half over yet."

"You don't understand," I said. "At my age..."

"What about your age?" she interrupted. "It’s not like you’re eighty. My great-uncle started learning to paint at 62 and had a solo exhibition at 70. You're only 37. You have plenty of time."

I found myself at a loss for words.

"And look," she started counting on her fingers, "now you don't have a wife nagging you. You can go home whenever you want, drink when you want, watch the game when you want. You're free!"

"That logic..." I laughed. "You really are a psychology major. Your way of comforting people is... unique."

"Of course," she tilted her chin up proudly. "I'm going to be a licensed counselor."

We chatted until nearly seven. The shop began to fill with customers. Pinky said she had to leave to study for another exam.

She stood up, brushed the crumbs off her skirt, pulled a marker from her bag, and wrote a string of numbers on a napkin. She handed it to me.

"This is my number," she said. "If you ever need someone to talk to, call me. Just don't call in the middle of the night; I go to bed early."

I took it, glanced at it, and tucked it into my pocket.

"Thank you," I said. "Truly."

"Don't mention it." She slung her bag over her shoulder, walked to the door, and looked back with a smile. "Big brother, life is long. If I can dye my hair pink, why can't life start over?"

Then she was gone, a gust of wind following the closing door.

I sat at the bar and finished my glass. The owner came over to clear the table and said, rare for him, "That girl... she's a good one."

"Yeah," I said. "She really is."

When I left the izakaya, it was pitch black outside. The streetlights were all on, and people were bustling about, just like they had been when I arrived. But I felt like something was different.

Maybe it was me.

I stood by the road and took a deep breath. The air smelled of street BBQ smoke, car exhaust, and music drifting from some shop. It was noisy, but it was real.

I pulled out my phone and called my mother.

"Mom, have you eaten?"

"Yes, and you?"

"I ate too. Mom, I wanted to tell you... I went with her today to finish the paperwork."

Silence for a few seconds.

"If it’s done, it’s done," my mother said, her voice a bit raspy. "Just as long as you're okay."

"Yeah, I'm okay."

After hanging up, I looked at my phone again. No missed calls, no new messages. The WeChat group for our old "home" hadn't seen a message in a long time. I didn't leave the group, but I knew I’d have to eventually.

But that’s okay.

I hailed a taxi and gave the address of my rental. An old song was playing on the radio; I hummed along for a bit, and the driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

I got out and passed the convenience store downstairs. I went in to buy a bottle of water. Next to the register was a row of hair dyes—pink, blue, purple.

I stared at the pink one for several seconds but didn't buy it.

It wasn't that I didn't dare, I just felt I wasn't quite at that point yet.

But who knows? Maybe one day I will dye my hair pink. 37 shouldn't be too late, right?

I slept well that night—no dreams, no waking up at 3:00 AM. When the alarm went off the next morning, the sunlight outside actually felt a little bright.

I got up, pulled back the curtains, and saw a little girl downstairs with a backpack and a ponytail, skipping along the road.

I suddenly remembered what Pinky said: "Life is long."

Yes, life is long.

37 isn't the finish line; it’s not even the halfway point. It’s just an ordinary number, no different from 36 or 38. A divorce certificate is just a piece of paper, just like a marriage license—thin, unable to change who you are.

I’m still living alone in that twelve-square-meter room, still wearing that faded shirt, still working that dead-end job. But I’ve started making myself breakfast every morning. I fry an egg, heat some milk, and sit on the windowsill to eat.

A few days ago, I passed a flower shop and bought a pothos plant. I put it on my windowsill. The girl selling it said they're hardy—just give them a little water and they'll live.

I watered it and watched it turn a brilliant green in the sun.

Life is long.

I still have that napkin with the phone number. I’ve never called it. But every time I flip past it, I think of that pink-haired girl and what she said.

If you can dye your hair pink, why can't life start over?