Previously, my impression of the "poet" profession was: long hair, disliking washing their face or clothes, and being taciturn. But recently, this impression changed. It all started when I was invited to attend a gathering of "folk poets." As I entered the room, I first saw three bald heads. A poet friend I knew was also bald, and enthusiastically introduced them to me: "This is poet So-and-So, poet So-and-So..." After we sat down to eat, two more of their like-minded companions arrived, each entering with a bald head. If it weren't for the hearty dishes and vodka on the table, one might have mistaken this not for a poetry gathering, but for Buddhist disciples exchanging spiritual experiences.
I asked, "Why have you all become bald?"
They replied, "We don't really know why either. A couple of us shaved first, and everyone thought it was the in-thing within the circle, so we all followed suit."
As the only man present who wasn't bald, I couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed. They comforted me, saying, "Don't feel pressured; after all, you're not a poet."
I touched my head, realizing I wasn't a poet. Then I touched my chin, finally understanding I could never be a director—especially a TV director. The profession is famously known for its beards, so much so that it's even been written into comedic sketches. I remember once, wandering around a film set, I saw a man with a big beard and called out, "Director!" He quickly waved his hand: "No, no, I'm just a set decorator. I'm the one who'll turn on your 'bath heater' later."
There's another group—objectively speaking, not really a profession—that of "lvyous" (amateur outdoor adventurers). In this circle, there seems to be a common image: tall and robust, wearing a large watch on the left hand and a string of Buddhist beads on the right, driving an off-road vehicle, drinking gongfu tea. After chatting for more than half an hour, they will invariably confide in you: "Brother, at my age, I've finally realized the most important thing in life is—simplicity." Not only are their appearances similar, but their tone and content of speech are alike too. This left a young journalist from a travel magazine temporarily doubting himself: "Is my thinking not pure enough?"
He spent all day listening to interviewees preaching the truth of "simplicity," until finally he couldn't take it anymore and shouted at one of them: "It's because you can't understand complex things!"
The "lvyou" who had written poetry and once worked as a director touched his bald head and stroked his beard, suddenly exclaiming: "You know, that actually makes some sense."
It was this very fellow, the one who'd been scolded, who, not long after, suddenly changed his appearance—shaving off his beard, donning a slicked-back wig, wearing a suit, a silk scarf around his neck, and a pair of plain glasses on his nose. A journalist friend, curious, asked: "Why the sudden change?"
He replied, "Now that I've become a professional manager, I need to look the part."
In the past, when I watched movies, I always thought the stereotypical designs—pirates wearing eye patches, gangsters with dragon tattoos—were too clichéd. But now it seems, stereotyping has its basis in reality.