In the bamboo house, Si Huai sat alone in front of the mirror, combing his black hair with a wooden comb. In the past, A Yan always praised his hair for being black, smooth, and not frizzy at all.
Thinking of the past, the corners of the man's lips curled up slightly, but he couldn't smile the next second. Things have changed and people have changed. What right does he have to reminisce about the past now?
Si Huai's eyes were dim, but he still took out a pair of small scissors and cut his long hair to waist length.
Looking at the hair in his hand, he pondered for a long time, then found an ebony box and put a piece of hair in it.
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