Okay, here is the translation following your instructions: The Opera of Qing Ai

Author: Xiao Ping
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-09-01
Features: Baba always speaks without restraint, like stepping barefoot in a rain puddle, splashing mud and making loud pattering sounds. The sound is direct, so the splashed mud is both irritating and helpless. Despite this, the sound brings a sharp and satisfying realization, so there is a profound closeness and tenderness in the resistance and dislike.
Xiao Qing didn’t know what to say. She was still staring blankly at Baba’s words, wandering around the house. In the kitchen, her mother kept coughing and whispered softly,
“Xiao Qing, ah, cough. What’s the date today?”
Xiao Qing didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were aimlessly fixed on the aloe vera on the balcony. After a while, she lazily combed a few strands of hair that had fallen down and tied them with a rubber band. She shuffled over to the kitchen in wooden slippers.
The calendar was on the empty wall between Xiao Qing’s room and the kitchen—a clumsy photograph of a person. In the center, a woman with an oil-paper umbrella turned around and smiled. She had a good figure, but unfortunately, the flag uniform was made of cheap materials, with crooked buttons. What was worse was that her smile was fake and not professional enough, making it seem bewildered and lost. Adding to the grease and dust, it had a dusty, greasy look, making it feel like even the fresh vulgarity was gone. Xiao Qing couldn’t help but feel discouraged for the woman.
She didn’t understand why her mother would choose to hang this unwanted calendar in such a prominent place in the house—it was clearly a sign of self-neglect.
Thinking about this, Xiao Qing felt a heavy, gloomy mood. Everyone said Xiao Qing was a late-blooming girl, and almost everyone had said so. Her short, boyish hair was obvious to everyone, and she never took the time to groom herself. She spent her days carelessly lounging around like a middle school student, slinging her backpack from the corner of the street and often being told she had no posture when sitting or standing. When elders criticized her, Xiao Qing would just lower her gaze and smile. She didn’t bother closing her room door and would blast rock music loudly, lost in manga and ice cream. But in reality, the small, deliberate bites she took were her shrinking heart, becoming increasingly alone. No one understood that in the swaying mirror, her doll-like face hid insecurity, resentment, and a thread-like expectation that grew more intricate with each passing day. That was the color and texture that only began to show at the age of seventeen—pale, short, and slightly fuzzy, like a rabbit’s tail. It was a sudden addition of loneliness and affection in her cuteness, looking up at herself with wide eyes, desperately trying to hide it while hoping someone would suddenly, carelessly notice and walk in.