Both my father and I will refute whenever we are pointed out to be alike. In my father’s eyes, I’m not as strong, as quick-minded and as powerfully sensitive of direction. “You are ninety-nine percent from your incapable mother,” he's always saying, and the left one percent is to prove he’s the other biological parent. And I, too, will never admit having been like my father, who's too far from being brilliant, patient and considerate, and from being like a youngster who likes possibly anything of dreams.

Anyway, before I could have an opinion about my father, my father had already been never-resting in various ways to affirm that I am his son. Nevertheless, every time he wants to do so, he does it in any manner except telling “This son is my like.” When he sees me or hears me on the phone, he cheers, “Ah, boy!"; when we are out for a banquet, he sits beside me as a rule, and forever seems bigger than me no matter how much in years I have grown.

The recent months ago, my father became ill unexpectedly. Then in just dozens of days, he lost all his hair—which had not been too much at first—and became clearly bald. However, I was not at all stupid to find that a bald head is so, in a word, “striking”; so soon after I went to the barber's and had all my hair cut only to follow him. Guess what? My father blamed me severely for my being "stupid, strikingly stupid".        

And in these years, I unluckily gain a lot of weight. I seem to have filled out to be a very dull figure. And when I step, I wave like a duck. When I walk towards someone with a few books under my arm, I won't think about anything but my father walking proudly with a briefcase, his belly pointing up, just as he claims “to be the boss”. I feel proud to have my father, whom when they see my walking to them will refer to at once—a bald-head old man, who has never been blessed with any large fortune, but an excellent son like him.