Scott Dawson looked like he didn’t understand what he’d just said, grinned sheepishly, and replied as if it were only natural, “Of course, Brother Eric, those people at the county bureau are no match for you!”

“Come on, let’s get a haircut.” Eric Carter looked up and saw that they had just arrived in front of a barbershop. Smiling, he pointed at the shop. In ancient times, people would cut their hair to show determination—he would follow their example and, starting today, become a brand new version of himself.

The barbershop wasn’t big, but it was bright and clean. Compared to the state-run barbershops, this little shop was more modern. For example, on the glass mirrors, there were photos of beautiful movie actresses from “Xiao Hua.” Unlike the big posters of later years, these were just regular-sized photos tucked into the edges of the mirror frames. The young, fresh faces of stars like Chen Xiaoqing and Liu Chong looked quite nice.

The owner of the barbershop was an old man named Wang. He was very talkative and claimed to be retired from a state-run barbershop. Unable to sit idle, he’d opened this, Guangning’s first private barbershop, a couple of years ago. Business was good—he made more than he did when he was employed.

“A crew cut, please.” Sitting in the chair and looking at himself in the mirror, Eric Carter smiled slightly. His body was brimming with youthful energy—it felt great.

Old Mr. Miller was skilled and quick, but the manual hair clipper wasn’t very comfortable. Sometimes Eric Carter felt a sting on his scalp. It really couldn’t compare to the electric clippers of later years.

But wasn’t this what a real haircut was supposed to be? Eric Carter actually enjoyed the process.

Scott Dawson sat up straight on the long bench against the wall behind Eric Carter, as upright as a bell when standing and as steady as a pine when sitting. One look at this big guy and you could tell he had a military background.

Old Mr. Miller was observant and cheerful, saying with a smile, “Young men, you’ve both served in the army, haven’t you?”

When Eric Carter nodded, Old Mr. Miller started chatting, “Being a soldier is great—you get to see the world. My youngest son was in the army too. He came back last year and bought me some pellet candy. He said it used to be sold only to foreigners in the overseas remittance stores. It’s dark, a bit bitter, but pretty tasty.”

Eric Carter just smiled at this, but Scott Dawson frowned and corrected him, “Grandpa, that’s not called pellet candy. You’re talking about chocolate. And those remittance stores weren’t just for foreigners—they were for our own people who received foreign remittances and could shop there.”

Old Mr. Miller chuckled, “See, young comrade, being a soldier really broadens your horizons, doesn’t it?”

Scott muttered with a frown, “This old man’s awareness is a bit low. We working people are the masters of our own house—when did we ever only sell good stuff to foreigners? Being afraid of foreigners, that was feudal society.”

Eric Carter glared at Scott Dawson in the mirror and scolded, “Scott! What are you mumbling about?” But inside, he couldn’t help but smile. So, more than twenty years ago, Scott was this innocent and cute. People of this era really were simple.

Scott stopped muttering, but Old Man’s face turned serious and he didn’t dare joke around anymore. After all, it hadn’t been long since the period of correcting chaos, and the aftereffects of labeling people still lingered. Sometimes, careless words could have serious consequences.

The barbershop fell silent. Old Mr. Miller focused on cutting hair, while Eric Carter closed his eyes, quietly thinking about matters at the bureau and the recent sensational dismemberment case—the very case that had led to his being pushed out of the county bureau.

A burst of noisy voices interrupted Eric Carter’s thoughts. Suddenly, seven or eight men poured into the barbershop. They were of various ages; some wore industrial and commercial uniforms, others were in plain clothes, but all had red armbands with “Strike Down Speculation and Profiteering” written on them.

The leader was a middle-aged man with glasses, who grinned and asked Old Mr. Miller, “Uncle Miller, business is good, isn’t it?”

Old Mr. Miller immediately put on a fawning smile. “Little Brian, it’s Sunday and you’re still so busy?”

The middle-aged industrial and commercial official sighed, but looked a bit proud. “Can’t be helped—got to maintain economic order. The county meetings keep saying there’s too much illegal business going on. We work around the clock and still can’t catch them all.”

Eric Carter could tell from their armbands that they were from the Strike Office. The so-called Strike Office was the “Office of the Leading Group for Combating Smuggling and Speculation,” set up in the county’s Bureau of Industry and Commerce. Its main duties were to supervise economic activities of businesses, protect legal operations, crack down on illegal business, maintain economic order, and combat the resale of state-prohibited key production materials and scarce goods.

From the casual conversation between the middle-aged official and Old Mr. Miller, Eric Carter picked up some information: this official’s surname was Zhou, he was the deputy section chief of the administrative section of the Bureau of Industry and Commerce, and also served as the captain of the Strike Office’s law enforcement supervision team.

The house behind Old Mr. Miller’s shop was actually Director Clark’s home, and this shop itself was built by Director Clark. Even Old Mr. Miller’s individual business license was handled with Director Clark’s help, so Old Mr. Miller was very respectful toward him. When talking to Director Clark, he would even stop cutting hair, which made Scott Dawson frown.

Director Clark noticed Scott Dawson’s expression and immediately sized him up, saying sarcastically, “What’s wrong, you’re not satisfied?”

Scott Dawson raised his eyelids, ready to retort, but Eric Carter stopped him: “Little Scott!”