Betel Nut, a Square Face, and Something Akin to Jazz

I can't quite recall when I first chewed betel nut. It was probably sometime during a summer in my second year of high school, when the air was thick and sticky like half-melted malt syrup. A friend handed me one, his tone like he was sharing a secret weapon: "It's a pick-me-up, hits harder than caffeine." The thing was coated in a sickly sweet syrup, but inside were coarse, tough fibers. Chewing it gave a primitive, almost violent pleasure. First, a fleeting sweetness in the mouth, then astringency, and finally a burning sensation that shot straight to the top of my head. The world seemed to sharpen for a fraction of a second, then quickly blurred again, like an old, out-of-focus projector.

Back then, I wasn't really listening to jazz yet, and I had no concept of my own face shape. It was adolescence, you know, my head filled with half-formed thoughts and cheap hormones, like a pot of water not yet boiling, just simmering and bubbling, with no idea what it would eventually boil into. Betel nut was like a small pebble tossed into this pot, creating insignificant ripples.

At first, it was just occasional, before exams, or when pulling all-nighters gaming. Later, it gradually became a habit. I always carried a few in my pocket, like a talisman, or some other inexplicable dependency. The taste of betel nut was no longer just stimulating; it mingled with the smell of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and that specific exhaust-fume scent of the city night, becoming part of the backdrop to my adolescence. Chewing betel nut, I walked through neon-lit streets, nameless electronic music playing in my headphones, feeling like a solitary beast roaming aimlessly through the concrete jungle. Of course, that was just in my head. In reality, I was probably no different from any other young person on the street staring down at their phone.

The change in my face shape happened imperceptibly, like a frog in slowly boiling water. I hardly noticed it myself. Looking in the mirror every day, I saw the same familiar face, maybe with a few more pimples or heavier bags under my eyes. Until one day, a relative I hadn't seen in a long time stared at my face for a while, then said in a tone mixing surprise and pity, "Oh my, how did this kid's face get so square?"

"Square?" I subconsciously touched my jawbone. It did seem... more angular there?

Back home, I studied myself carefully in the mirror. The person in the mirror looked a bit unfamiliar. The once relatively round contours of my face had become harder, more defined. The muscles on the sides of my jaw – I later learned they were called masseter muscles – were abnormally developed, like two stubborn stones embedded there, stretching my whole face into an approximate square. It reminded me of the building blocks I played with as a child, or some kind of brutalist Soviet architecture. In any case, it was completely cut off from words like "handsome" or "delicate."

I panicked a little at first. How could a person's face just change like that? It felt a bit Kafkaesque. I tried to figure out the cause. Late nights? Junk food? Or... betel nut? I looked it up online, and sure enough, long-term betel nut chewing can cause masseter muscle hypertrophy, making the face squarer. There were many cases online, accompanied by shocking before-and-after photos. The faces in those photos, each one, were so thoroughly, so resolutely square.

It was darkly humorous. I had chewed betel nut for eight years. It hadn't perked me up, hadn't turned me into some kind of "tough guy"; instead, I'd acquired a perfectly square face. Like a joke, the kind only you can't laugh at – a deadpan joke. I tried to quit betel nut, but the stuff was like it had grown into my nerve endings. Without it, life felt like something was missing. Like being used to a late-night saxophone solo and suddenly having it replaced by a marching band tune, it just felt wrong all over.

Speaking of jazz, it was only after my face turned square that I started listening to it. I don't know why, but those improvisational, languid, slightly melancholic tunes seemed to perfectly match my new face. Especially Chet Baker's trumpet, thin as a thread yet incredibly resilient, like someone whispering alone at the edge of the world. Chewing betel nut (yes, I hadn't managed to quit completely, just cut back), listening to jazz, watching the monotonous cityscape outside the window, I felt a subtle shift in my relationship with the world.

My face was square, and it became a kind of label. Some found it comical, some regrettable, and some didn't notice at all. Life went on. The subway was still crowded, work was still boring. Only occasionally, late at night, when I looked in the mirror and saw that increasingly square face, I'd feel a strange sense of the absurd. This face was the result of my own choices, like a long, slow tattoo etched onto the bone. It's not beautiful, maybe even a little ugly. But it's part of me, recording that restless youth of mine, those long, empty hours spent chewing betel nut.

Sometimes I think, maybe this square face isn't so bad after all. In an era that values smoothness, refinement, and standards, perhaps having a square, angular face is actually a unique statement? Like an off-key jazz tune, out of step with the times, but with its own reason for being. It reminds me that life itself is rough, full of unexpected twists and transformations. What matters isn't the shape your face has become, but how you carry this face forward.

Like Wang Xiaobo said, to live, you need something "interesting." Maybe my square face is just life's way of forcing that bit of "interesting" onto me. Even if this "interesting" arrived a bit brutally, leaving one unsure whether to laugh or cry. But who knows, maybe in a few years, the square face will be the new trend, like Elvis's swiveling hips back in the day. By then, this face of mine might even lead a retro wave.

Of course, this is most likely just my bored speculation. It's more likely that I'll keep sporting this square face, keep chewing betel nut (or finally quit), listening to jazz, living a life that's neither good nor bad, quite unremarkable, in this vast, indifferent city. Until one day, even I get used to this face, feeling like it was always meant to be this way. Like getting used to the dissonant notes in jazz, and eventually discovering that's precisely where its true charm lies.

As for the betel nut, it still lies in my pocket. Like a silent friend, or a cunning enemy. It shaped my face, and it also witnessed my... how should I put it... something akin to growth, I suppose. Even though this growth came at a high cost, and its shape is a bit strange. Like a jazz tune so wildly off-key, but damn it, you still have to keep listening.