Perfection cannot be improved.

Dear Uncle Min-chul,

Today, I made a bold decision. I went to get a haircut.

Now, before you say anything—yes, I knew what to expect. Everyone knows. There is only one acceptable style, and our good comrade Mr. Kang at the barber shop has perfected it. It doesn’t matter who walks through his door—young, old, round-faced, sharp-jawed—everyone leaves looking identical.

The moment I sat in the chair, he nodded approvingly. “Ah, a fine choice,” he said, as if I had any choice at all. His scissors moved with the precision of a man who has given the same exact cut thousands of times. With each snip, I could feel my individuality being carefully trimmed away, replaced by a perfectly uniform, state-approved look.

Five minutes later, it was done. He spun me toward the mirror, beaming with pride. There I was—reborn, indistinguishable from the hundreds who had sat before me.

As I paid, Mr. Kang leaned in and whispered, “Perfection cannot be improved.” I’m still not sure if he was talking about his work or the Party.

If you ever visit Pyongyang, let me know—I’ll book you an appointment. Just don’t expect to recognize yourself afterward.

Your freshly standardized nephew,
Nam-jun