When people think of a priest, they naturally picture a kind-faced elder—that’s only natural. After all, in Catholicism, those who hold the title are devout souls of impeccable virtue, who vow celibacy and dedicate themselves wholly to the Lord (basically like a Grand Inquisitor from the FFF Order).

Unlike the trope where "the purest places hide the darkest secrets," everyone in the old district genuinely respected that crumbling little church. Whether it was the vegetable-seller uncle or street vendors, they’d instinctively lower their heads whenever catching sight of the distant cross atop its steeple.

But one thing was odd: the locals’ hairstyles were bizarre. Starfish spikes and seaweed tangles were considered *normal*. Were all the old district’s residents this fashion-forward?

Anyway, that wasn’t the point. Even the priest’s forehead—scarred like a coiled centipede—and his withered, yellowish face, which looked eerier when smiling than when stern, couldn’t block the spread of truth. In this faithless 21st century, such devotion was rare. It stirred something inexplicable in me.

I lingered near the street market entrance, unease twisting in my chest. Last time, I’d nearly given the old priest a heart attack. How should I apologize properly this time…?

Then, a tall figure glided past the fish stalls. A black dress with white trim at the collar and hem. A silver cross pendant. Short, wine-dark curls.

*“A… nun?”*

We hadn’t spoken during our rushed first meeting, but I remembered her.

“Hello? Uh, excuse me?”

I waited politely as she carried her basket out. Up close, I was stunned. Her frame was broader than the delicate southern girls I knew—she even towered over me. In today’s globalized world, it wasn’t shocking, but it drew eyes.

Her fair skin and serene face radiated holiness beneath the heavy habit. She studied me, full lips parting slightly. “I understand Chinese.”

I stopped my flustered gestures. “Um, could I ask—”

She raised a hand, solemn. “I know. Follow me.”

*That* perceptive? Before I even asked about the priest? Maybe there *was* a god watching. I glanced at the cloudless sky, awed.

As she led me past laundry poles draped with clothes and aunties dancing square dances, through the church’s creaking wooden door, my last worry vanished. Though… why did those pitying stares from behind feel so strange?

She ushered me into a side room. “Wait here.”

I nodded. I knew this place—a humble confessional. So she *did* know why I’d come.

The whole church felt like a drafty ruin. Without the hanging cross and crumbling frescoes, no one would guess it was sacred ground. Yet in my darkest hour, this shabby little room had saved me.

When she returned, she carried a small wooden box and had removed her wimple. She pointed at the door. “Go in.”

“Uh… where’s the priest?”

“You want a shampoo?”

I shook my head, baffled.

*Huh? What does the priest have to do with shampoo?*

“Just go in first.”

“…Alright.”

Moments later, she squeezed into the cramped confessional too. “Why are *you* coming in?”

She shrugged off her cloak. The humid air made her roll up her sleeves, wiping sweat from her brow. Her hazel eyes looked at me like I was an idiot. “How else do you expect me to work?”

“Work? What work?”

She frowned, muttering something dark—*sands of beach*? Nonsense. Nuns don’t curse. I must’ve misheard. *Yeah!*

“Ugh, what do people *do* here?”

Before I could react, she shoved me into a chair. The force was shocking—I’d wasted eight years of horse-stance training.

Her tone was like a street-corner barber hawking services. If I hadn’t met the gentle old priest first, I’d have thought this chapel hid illegal dealings. Even now, our position was… intimate. My pulse raced.

She knelt behind the chair. The rickety wood groaned as her full, firm chest pressed against my back. Her long fingers slid from my collarbone to my neck.

“W-wait! What are you doing?!” I yelped.

“You’ll see soon.” Her breath warmed my ear.

*Snap. Snick. Snick. Snick!*

After that scalp-prickling symphony, a mirror appeared before me. I knew this feeling. Exactly like when Mrs. Nalan forced me into a maid dress and made me admire my “cute” reflection. I’d misunderstood everything from the start…

*This person wasn’t a nun at all!*

“Well? Satisfied?”

*Click.* She leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette like it was post-coital bliss, admiring her “masterpiece.”

The mirror showed a face of utter despair… and hair—neat, silky, gleaming hair. No more bird’s nest.

*Damn it. I look even more like a girl now…*

“Don’t like it? I think it’s adorable,” she said, puzzled by my expression.

*That’s exactly why I’m panicking!* Must I wrap my head in scarves just to step outside now?!

“That’s not the point! Why did you cut my hair?!”

“Huh? This is a barbershop.”

Her tone made it *my* fault.

“Where does it say that?! On the cross? The frescoes?!”

She grinned. “There’s a Chinese saying… ‘custom makes law’? Right. Everyone in the old district knows this place cuts hair. That old geezer priest? Just a mascot and shampoo boy. That’s why I asked if you wanted a wash.”

“But… this is a *church*!”

“Idiot. Who prays these days? Without customers, he and I would’ve starved years ago!”

*I did.* But… so this was the truth. Even nuns and priests need to eat.

I couldn’t bear to look at my overly feminine reflection. Memories of those bizarre hairstyles flashed back. “Even so—you can’t force haircuts on people! Did you do those aunties’ hair too?”

She exhaled a smoke ring, nodding. “Chinese folks always say ‘whatever’ or ‘just tidy it up.’ *Tidy what?!* So I ‘tidy’ however I want!”

I gritted my teeth. “Should I thank you for making me look human?”

“No thanks needed. You’re a pretty girl already.” She rubbed thumb and forefinger together, flashing a dazzling, mercenary smile. “Pay up.”

My face darkened. “I’m a *boy*.”

“Oh? Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

No surprise crossed her face—just suppressed laughter. My heart lurched. “You didn’t…?”

“What? That boy who wears skirts? Never met him!”

Her smile bloomed, brimming with mischief. She *remembered* me from years ago.

“Bullshit! You did this on purpose!”

She pinched my cheek. “Isn’t this better? Where’s that unflappable cross-dresser who faced doomsday without blinking? The Lord is merciful. All are His servants. Does gender matter? Don’t listen to Lucifer’s whispers.”

*Shameless!* Now she played all-knowing saint while holding my weakness hostage.

My cheeks burned. “I’m not that person anymore.”

“Saying that proves you haven’t changed at all, kid. I was shocked when I first saw you today—almost didn’t recognize you.”

I froze. The answer in my heart was clear. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here begging the priest for salvation again.

“You came for the old geezer? He’s cooking in the kitchen. Join us?” She slid the door open, then glanced back with a knowing smile. “Oh—and I’m Maria. Female. A nun who’s never memorized the Bible.”

*Deliberate. Absolutely deliberate.* That wicked nun had stressed her gender on purpose.