Jessie Hwang's Prose and Pictures

PART I

I start work at sin-si every night. Sin-si is when the sun sets and the work ends for men. I am 21 years old now, so I work at a room-salon. When I was younger, I could just work as a waitress at a talking-bar, and talk, and get touched only occasionally. But men won’t pay a college-aged girl to just talk, so I’ve been a room-salon girl since last year. In room-salons, men pay to spend time with girls like me in private rooms. There is less talk, more touch. Sometimes I have to go out for a second-round with a customer – usually to a nearby love hotel, which lets you book short sessions starting from an hour. Our salon is known as elite, with lots of young pretty girls, so my pay isn’t too bad. This year, I’m going to try to cut ties with my parents so that I don’t have to send them money. I’ll finally be able to save up. 

I live in a half-basement dormitory next to our salon. I have two roommates who are also salon girls, but they work at a second-tier karaoke bar because they’re in their 30s. 

It’s sin-si now. Through the small window, set high just enough for me to see the ground, I see that the shadows are already falling long and dark against the reddening street. It’s time for my work to begin. I check my mirror again and make sure everything looks right – oh, that pimple is still visible! I’ll ask Madam to get me some cream. Madam Angela is our manager, the head of the house. She’s old and tall, with a commanding presence, and striking features that must’ve made her pretty back in the day. I don’t know her real Korean name, even though she, on the other hand, keeps all my official documents. In the salon, my name is Leena.  

***

I walk into the salon’s main hall. The girls are already in a line, waiting to enter the choice-room where the men pick us up, one by one. I stop by Madam’s table. 

“You’re here, Leena?” Madam says, “You’re a bit late. You might want to come here earlier from now on – there’ll be some new girls showing up soon.”

We all know: new face is better than pretty face. I’m never going to make as much as I did as a new face, barely 20 years old – fresh, exciting, untouched. A new face can come to work late and get introduced to well-mannered customers. It goes both ways – the men can have their fresh pick, and the girls can indulge briefly in the illusion that all their customers will be as well-behaved as those men, making it easier to come back to work. The new faces will certainly enjoy their first few months here, the joy compounded by the cash they get afterward – the kind of money they’ve never touched before. But I can’t be jealous yet – I’m still considered an ace here. I’m called often and there are a few loyal customers who always ask for me.

Recently, it’s been difficult for me to keep my composure. Even after all the drinking, the men look grotesque. Sometimes I feel like punching their faces. I don’t know where that comes from. They’ve always been ugly.  

I stand behind Jenny, another ace girl in our salon. I don’t want to stand next to her today; my skin looks so dark and dull in comparison, and the pimple bothers me a lot. But Madam tells us to enter the choice-room in this order. I pick up a number plate from her table – tonight, I am number eighteen. We walk into the choice-room, which is just a modified dance studio with a one-way mirror. We can only see our reflections. Men on the other side can see us through the glass. I like it this way. Previously, at the talking-bar, I knew exactly what the men were looking at; now, I have the peace of being blind to where their eyes fall. 

I hear Madam calling number after number from the other side – the men are choosing us, one by one. I haven’t been called on yet. The pimple must be too visible. Maybe I gained some weight. People say that women care too much about the number on the scale, but I know that men really do notice weight, subconsciously at least. I get chosen more often on days when I weigh even a pound lighter.

“Eighteen,” Madam calls, and the choice-room is already half-empty. I didn’t do well today. I walk out to greet my customer.

***

I’ve just woken up. The mid-afternoon sun reaches my half-basement now; it’s almost sin-si. I look in the mirror – the pimple is gone, but instead, my eyes are puffy. I got my first double eyelid surgery almost five years ago. That was right before I started working at the talking-bar, a little enhancement to make myself more presentable. Growing up, I was always tired of everyone telling me I’d look even prettier with double eyelids, so I wanted the surgery anyway. But after a while, my face changed with puberty, and my eyes looked out of proportion. So, I finally got them redone a couple of months ago. My eyes have healed since, but on some days, the incisions are obvious and my eyes are extra puffy, like today. I’m annoyed. Today is Saturday, which is when our best customers come. I’ve seen actual K-pop stars on Saturdays after they’re done with their music video shoots, or whatever it is that they do. I’ll need to go to a makeup salon to hide my eyelids. I’ve been spending a lot of money on maintenance recently – the money always leaks out like this. I might need another year before I save enough for college.

I walk outside. I notice college girls coming back from their classes. They look plain. They’re laughing together. Their mouths are wide and open and ugly. They’re probably gossiping about boys. Your boys come to our salon every week. Your fathers come to us too, with gifts more expensive than whatever you got for your birthday. You wouldn’t imagine how many middle-aged men show me pictures of their college-aged daughters.

The girls walk past me. I feel prettier now. I am an ace, after all. I know other salon girls who fine-tune their entire face and end up looking cheap. But everything about me is real, except my eyes. 

***

Tonight was decent – I’d taken care of my eyes at the makeup salon. I got chosen very early on, and the customer didn’t take me to a second-round; he just wanted to mess around for a bit. It’s a few hours before dawn. I’m already back in my dormitory, ready for bed. I raise my heels and stretch to peek outside the window above my wardrobe. It’s a hazy night. I like this kind of night. I see an orange lamp-post across the street. The light glows through the fog and reaches me slightly. If anyone is outside walking by, they’d only see my eyes. 

PART II

I don’t have many friends. Among the few friends I have, only one is not a salon girl – Yoobin – we used to hang out in school. She works at Dajung Cafe now; she doesn’t go to college, but she’s saving up to leave Korea and go to Canada. I don’t talk to her often, though she texted me a couple of days ago, saying she had something to tell me. Yesterday was my night off, so we arranged to meet this afternoon. 

She’s my friend because she knows what I do but doesn’t judge me. Every time I see her, though, I can’t help but secretly wonder how she’ll be able to go to Canada with minimum wage and no college degree. There’s this new visa scheme that she talks about, and how she’ll be able to continue working as a barista in Canada, but I can never remember the details.

I walk into the cafe. It’s not very popular – it’s not a large franchise like Starbucks but it’s also not a cute, Instagrammable boutique. Still, a few people are inside.

“Hi, you’re here! Good to see you. Just wait a couple of seconds while I finish up my shift,” Yoobin greets me. I go to one corner of the cafe, far from the people, and sit down at a table. It’s nice to be awake when the sun is out instead of sleeping as usual. 

“So, how have you been doing?” She sits down across from me.

“I’m fine, just tired. You know how it is.” 

“I know. Thanks for coming here. I just wanted to give you some updates.” Yoobin’s face is distorted with excitement. She’s not pretty – not plain, even; she has protruding cheekbones, small, slit-like eyes, a low nose bridge, and a large face overall, with a dark complexion. If she were to work at the salon, she’d need a lot of procedures.

“I know you don’t keep up with the news. So I’ll tell you what’s happening – the government just released a ‘birth map.’ You know what this means?”

I shake my head.

“It’s a promotional poster for fertility awareness. Basically, all girls – girls! – from age 15 to women up until age 40 are marked as small pink dots on the map, based on where they live. It shows which region has how many fertile women. They got the numbers down to a digit. You and I are there, too. They say it’s to encourage more births, but how? It can only mean one thing – we’re just birth-giving cattle in this country. And why did they include children on the map? It’s creepy. An official report was released, too, about how educated women caused Korea’s low birth rate and should be given disadvantages in the hiring process so that they become moms instead. They spent 10 billion won to make this thing! Isn’t that outrageous?”

“Is that the thing you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes, don’t you see? All the more reason to leave Korea. You should think about it too. I mean, Korea is so anti-women. You must feel it too, since you have first-hand exposure to all the Korean men. All they do is molka, mool-pong, and say things like ‘sam-il-han.’ They’re the worst in the world!”

I don’t know what to say. It’s been her usual repertoire ever since the day she decided that she would flee Korea because of Korean men.

“I’m done with Korean men. I need to find a Western one. I heard they actually like cheekbones and small eyes over there – I have a chance. Did I tell you that the National Bank recently forged the male applicants’ interview scores to make them rank higher than the female applicants? Outrageous. In the West, instead of reserving spots for men, they reserve spots for women. And the men don’t complain about it! I’m so cursed to be born in this country,” Yoobin sputters, and some of her spit lands on my hand. “Anyway, have you ever had foreign customers? Oh, I’m sorry if it’s offensive. You don’t have to answer. I was just curious if it’s true, that they’re tall, well-mannered, respectful in bed…”

I’m not offended. My Korean customers sometimes ask that too, although usually out of self-consciousness, or to claim that they are better than the foreigners. Yoobin and I have both never been outside of Korea. But I’ve had foreign customers from time to time. Some are indeed more respectful, but most have strange fantasies that I don’t want to fulfill – I’ve had to call the guards once because one got violent after I told him I couldn’t role-play as an amputee. At the end of the day, foreigner or Korean, they all come to me for a purpose.

I don’t say anything. Today, I don’t have much patience to listen to her.

“I’ve been following this online women’s forum,” she says, showing me an app on her phone. “That’s where I get the news, and we all talk about how bad it is to live in Korea as a woman. It’s been really enlightening. I know you don’t use the Internet much, but I just want you to be more aware. Of, you know,” lowering her voice, almost whispering, “feminism.”

“Feminism? I’ve only heard of it in history class.”

“Well, it’s a thing here now. The good thing is that you’re welcome too! We call people like you sung-ja, it sounds like the word saint, right? Feminism actually supports people like you. The customers that you have – the men – they are the bad ones. They should be punished, not you. You’ve been dealing with so many awful men!”

At her exclamation, some people in the cafe turn around and look at us. 

“Shh, lower your voice, please,” I whisper.

***

Drained, I return to my dorm and start thinking about tonight. I should’ve spent the day shopping or responding to texts that my loyal customers send me on my work phone, rather than listening to Yoobin ramble. Already the sun is beginning to set. Both of my roommates are here, doing their makeup.

“Oh, did you just come back from somewhere? You’ve been gone the whole day. Was yesterday your night off?” Soohee smiles. She looks like a friendly ajumma – just a normal middle-aged woman you’d see while grocery shopping, not a salon girl. She’s almost 40.

“Yes, it was. I was having coffee with a friend.”

“Friend? And not a boyfriend? Come on, you can tell us!” Soohee is joking, but I’m not in the mood to joke back. A boyfriend? I couldn’t imagine dating anyone, customer or not. If it’s a customer, it’d just become an extended contract, of which I already have plenty. And dating an ordinary guy would just make me wonder what salons he’ll visit behind my back; no man is truly outside of this sphere. Some of us do date – Jenny, for example, always shows the girls a new handbag, or a watch, that her lover has given her. She tells him she’s an online shop model, a half-truth. 

“Oh, drop it. Pretty as she is, you know she’s not the type to have a boyfriend. She’s too melancholy,” Hanseo says, not looking up from her desk mirror. She’s in her mid-30s, with her wrinkles beginning to show, which she’s desperately trying to cover.

“What do you mean? She’s at her prime. Maybe you can even find a wealthy one, dear. Anyway, just don’t make the mistake of dating the wrong person. I wasted my entire youth with that ex-boyfriend of mine, only for him to back out of marriage, his mother calling me a whore. A whore, that’s what she said.” 

“Yes, we’ve heard it many times. Just forget about him. Come on, we’re going to be late,” Hanseo says, putting on her heels. 

“Okay, we’re heading out,” Soohee announces. “Wait, I need to tell you something. Your madam, her name is Angela, right? You must not know this since you didn’t go to work yesterday. I heard she got beaten really badly by a customer last night, I don’t know exactly why,” Soohee adds, hurriedly, as they exit the room.

PART III

I arrive at the salon hall and see that some girls are huddled together, whispering to themselves, watching Madam and a new girl arguing. Madam Angela looks mostly fine, but I can see that her arms are bruised green. 

“Hannah, you can’t just pick and choose here. That man didn’t even ask for a second-round. He was just touching you. I’ve told you that that’s what happens here!”

“He was trying to finger me!” Hannah’s face is deformed with anger. She must be the new face that just arrived. She’s quite old, in her early 30s perhaps, too old to be a new face. She’s tall and slim, but her face isn’t well-maintained like the other girls. She looks like an average office worker, nothing tantalizing about her. She does have big eyes, but her jawline is masculine and her nose is slightly crooked.

“That’s part of the touching, I’m sorry! Besides, there was no need to slap him. Look at what he’s done to me because of that!” Madam says, lifting her dress. Her legs are even more badly bruised than her arms.

“I had every right to!” Hannah’s eyes are red, and she looks unstable. “Are you really okay with me being degraded like that by random people?”

“Wait, look at me. Have you been sniffing glue?”

“So what if I have?” Hannah retorts. “What kind of mother suggests this kind of work to her daughter?”

“We talked about this. You came up with this idea yourself. You can’t be unemployed for so long, you’ve been doing nothing the past few years, Hannah.” Madam coaxes.

“Don’t call me Hannah! That’s not my name. My name is Jiyoung! Kim Jiyoung!” 

She snatches the glass vase from the table and hurls it at Madam, who ducks. The vase crashes into my face with a thud, and the shards graze my skin. A sharp sting spreads across my cheek, and I taste blood in my mouth. I gasp, my vision spinning as I touch my face, finding it slick and wet.

“Now what have you done?” Madam cries, looking at me. “She won’t be able to work tonight!” 

“I’m never coming back here again. I thought I did well on that last job interview… I just need one more chance.” With that, Hannah storms out of the salon, leaving Madam and us girls. Silence sweeps through the salon. None of us had known that Madam had a daughter. The girls look at Madam, timidly, waiting for her instructions. 

“Well, girls, we need to open soon. Whatever you saw and heard here stays in this room. Forget about Hannah.” Madam says, then turns to me. “Your face is so badly damaged. Go and patch it up. We’ll need a replacement for you tonight… Jenny! Where’s Jenny? Shit, is it her night off today? Betty, text Jenny now that she has to come tonight. Say she’ll get paid double.”

“Yes, madam,” Betty replies, quickly sends the text, then rushes over to me, as I clutch my face. “Are you okay, unni? Oh no, your face is bleeding… Here, take these napkins and press them tight against your face. Let me call the ambulance.” 

“No, there’s no need,” I say, taking the napkins from her. “Besides, they shouldn’t come see us here.”

“You’re right, but at least let me help you, unni.”

Betty pulls the first-aid kit from a drawer, then gently grabs my arm. Leading me to a spare room, she guides me to a seat beside her.

“Oh, unni, I can’t believe Madam didn’t apologize. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Do you think there’ll be a permanent scar?”

“That would be terrible. But I don’t think so, it doesn’t look too deep. It will heal soon.”

Betty applies ointment to my face – her hands are careful and soft. Betty is a girl who joined us half a year ago, but I haven’t ever talked to her aside from the occasional hellos.

“Unni, why are you working here? You’re so pretty… You could be a model, a celebrity, anything. I always wanted to ask you.”

“With this kind of history? I’ve been working since I was thirteen. If I became famous, someone would surely dig into my past and post it online.”

“Thirteen? That’s way too young! Can I ask why?”

“My dad lost his factory job when I was twelve and became an alcoholic quickly. Someone had to feed my sister. She was only six.”

“But what about your mother?”

“She doesn’t know any kind of work. Besides, she was never really maternal anyway.”

“I’m so sorry, unni. I’ve never had a mother, so I understand.”

“What happened to you?” I ask.

“Oh, me? Well… I ran away from my home a couple of years ago. I was living with my grandfather, and he beat me really badly one day, you know. I joined a family of other runaways that shared a little apartment, and a few days later, the head boy took advantage of me. That was my first time. He suggested that I should start working at a salon if I couldn’t pay rent. I was damaged anyway, and I had quit high school, so I thought this was the only option. I was probably right.”

“Do you still live with him? And the others?”

“Thankfully, no. I’ve got my own apartment now!” Betty’s face lights up. She’s a plain girl, but she has quite a charming smile. She bandages my face. “There! You’re all set now. I’m sorry such a pretty face was damaged. Rest up, and text me when you’ve recovered so that I can tell Madam. I hope you don’t have to pay her for the days missed, I mean it’s her fault really, and you’re an ace, so maybe she’ll make an exception for you…”  

PART IV

I go back to my half-basement. Soohee and Hanseo have already left. I take some time to look at myself in the mirror before I undress. Shame that I looked so good today, at least before the accident happened. I’d put on my best hall-dress. I hope Betty is right that the scar won’t last long. I wish I’d said something to Hannah, maybe throw something back, but I know all my anger is useless now. Taking the bandage off my face, I see that several bruises have appeared around the big scar. I look like my mother, like my mother’s face after she gets beaten by my father. I never liked that I resembled her. But it’s the only thing she ever gave to me – a pretty face, so I must take good care of it. I put on some dressing and hope that it would heal my face. I undress, put on my pajamas, and slide into bed. 

I can’t fall asleep, especially since I usually don’t go to bed at this time. I start thinking about the conversation I had with Yoobin earlier today. Feminism? All the isms and schisms mean little to me. Leaving the country? How could she be so naive? – But I guess she’s been like that all this time. 

***

In middle school, the students all had to take turns cleaning the classrooms and the teachers’ offices as an after-school activity. One day, I was assigned to sweep the classroom. I went to the broom closet in the hallway, but the closet was locked from the outside with a broomstick. Someone inside was banging on the door. I took the stick out and opened the door, and a girl came outside.

“Thank you,” she murmured and quickly scurried past me.

“Wait!” I grabbed her arm and looked at her. “Who did this to you?”

She examined me as if she was assessing whether or not I was trustworthy.

“You know what, I can’t even think of a lie. It’s the boys. They beat me and locked me up because I’m ugly.”

“Why would they do such a thing?” 

“You don’t understand, you’re pretty. Everyone talks about you. Even I know you.”

For some reason, I wanted to gain her trust. I saw something familiar in her eyes, a kind of desperate honesty that I hadn’t expected from someone like her. 

“You know, I’ll tell you a secret. My eyes – they aren’t natural. I got double-eyelid surgery a year ago.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t know that.” She was silent for a moment, and I could feel her eyes searching my face, trying to see what was real and what was hidden. Briefly, I thought she might say something dismissive, but instead, she lowered her gaze, as if considering something carefully.

“You’d have been pretty without them, too,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “I tried putting on double-eyelid tape, and I just looked swollen. I tried putting on makeup, but I was a laughingstock that day. When I was fat, they called me a pig. But even after starving myself, I’m not pretty… No matter how much I try, they still find a reason to make fun of me.”

I didn’t know what to say. It was true; she wasn’t pretty at all. 

“Wait, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about the surgery. I’ll tell you a secret since you’ve shared yours,” she said, looking at me earnestly.

“What is it?”

“Well,” she takes a deep breath, “Jimin likes you.”

I laughed. This was her secret, then? 

“The thing is, I like Jimin. Don’t tell anyone! His friends might beat me,” she said hastily. Then, she added, after seeing that I didn’t consider this a very important piece of information, “Hey, why would I say this to the girl that he likes if I didn’t trust her completely?”

I smiled. I liked her for her naivete. I wanted to keep her around, to remind myself that I was still in middle school, that I wasn’t just a girl selling her smiles at a talking-bar.

“My name is Yoobin, by the way. What’s yours?”

***

I still can’t sleep. Memories start flooding my mind, and I try my best to resist them, as there are only ones I’d like to forget. I wonder if it’s normal to have a life so utterly discolored that every moment in time is better left forgotten. What if, every day, I wake up with a clean state of mind – with no memories of the past – and live for a day, and die once more? All the men I’ve met, all the girls I’ve worked with – all are irrelevant. Even my friends, even Yoobin, can go. Is there anything I don’t mind keeping? Oh, there is a foolish little thing I remember. 

I don’t know why it stuck with me, but I’ll always remember this – spring warmth, a green clover field near my first home. My body was small and the earth was fresh. I couldn’t have been older than six. I was trying to find a four-leaf clover alongside the neighborhood kids. The ones I picked were all missing one leaf; I became upset. The other children would exclaim one by one, claiming that they found their clover. The kids were laughing together – and the dirt smelled nice – and the clovers glistened in the sun – and they all made me lonelier. I sighed loudly and looked around, but nobody was paying the slightest attention to me. I resigned; after all, I’d always been an unlucky child, someone who should’ve never been born, as my mother used to tell me. I stomped on my clovers and started heading back home. Then – an older girl whose face I’d long forgotten – she came up to me and extended her hand – here, I just found this, you can have it. I looked at her, and I didn’t know what to say, but I wanted the clover so I pocketed it quickly. “There, I’m giving my luck to you,” she said, smiling, then she went back to her friends, who stared at me curiously. Out of embarrassment, I pretended to pick more clovers, but soon I ran back home with the four-leaf clover in my hand. Only when I reached the floor of my apartment did I realize I never asked for her name. I ran back to the clover field to find her, but she was gone, and so were the kids. 

***

So much time has passed – it’s possibly close to dawn – but I’m only half-asleep. I’m paralyzed in bed, and I see some images floating around me. I see the four-leaf clover, long lost, right in front of me. I try to reach for it, but I can’t even twitch my fingers. Far ahead, there’s the girl that gave the clover to me, her image drifting further and further away. She’s facing the clover field, and I can only see her back. I want to go up to her, give her back the clover, tell her I didn’t deserve it. I strain against the weight of my own body, but I only feel numb. When I break free from my paralysis, it’s too late; the dream has extinguished like dew. 

I have a sudden desire to take a walk outside and wander aimlessly, a vagabond’s night. I get up and look outside the window; rain has started falling, fogging up the glass. Taking my raincoat, I decide that I won’t come back until I see the sun rise.

It’s wet and dark on this empty street; even the neon lights are dying out. Oh, Seoul is finally dead. I light a cigarette, smoke a little, and flick it away. The ground is scattered with dirty little cards advertising salon girls. I raise the collar of my raincoat – should I cry tonight? I stop in front of a closed shop. The rain is falling on the show-window like tears flowing. I see the reflection of my face – bruised, fractured, yet shining softly, a silver shadow. When the sun rises, when Seoul comes alive again, will it remember that I’ve been here? Does it know what happened here – that it’s been conquered, lost, built, destroyed, cherished, spat on? Oh, sinful Seoul! Even the rain does not wash away your sighs.