One million, eight hundred and seventy thousand won.  That was all.  And sixty thousand of it was in cash.  Cash saved one bill at a time by bulldozing the John Galliano and Vivien Westwood clerks until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied.  Three times Jiyong counted it.  One million, eight hundred and seventy thousand won.  And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the Scandinavian couch and howl.  So Jiyong did it.  Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the leader of the group is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the dorm.  A furnished flat paid for by YG's accountants.  It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had the residents on the lookout for the cleaning lady.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which countless fan letters would go, and a doorbell from which no sasaeng could coax a response.  Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the names "Misters Kwon Jiyong and Dong Youngbae."

The “Youngbae” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of training when its possessor was preparing to debut.  Now, when fame had bloomed at last, he was simply known as Taeyang.  But whenever Mr. Sol came home and reached his flat above, he was called "Bae" and greatly hugged by Mr. G-Dragon, already introduced to you as Jiyong.  Which is all very good.

Jiyong finished his cry and attended to his cheeks with the BB cream.  He stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray alleyway.  Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and he had only $1.87m with which to buy Bae a present.  He had been saving every won he could for months, with this result.  A check or so a week from YG doesn't go far when you're an idol.  Expenses had been greater than he had calculated.  They always are.  Only $1.87m to buy a present for Bae.  His Bae.  Many a happy hour he had spent planning for something nice for him.  Something fine and rare and grossly overpriced -- something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Bae.

There was a pair of reflective Ray-Bans on the desk in the room. Perhaps you've seen the type.  A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of fish-eyed ovals, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks.  Jiyong, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly he whirled from the window and picked up the glasses.  His eyes were shining brilliantly, but his face had lost its color within twenty seconds.  Rapidly he pulled down his hair, secured in a tiny bun that sent his fans into a frenzy, and let it fall to its full length down the right side of his face.

Now, there were two possessions of the Kwon-Dongs in which they both took a mighty pride.  One was Bae's Chrome Hearts cross pendant.  The other was Jiyong's hair.  Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the way, Jiyong would have let his hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts.  Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Bae would have pulled out his cross every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Jiyong's beautiful hair fell about him rippling and shining like a cascade of ebon waters.  It reached his chin and made itself almost a raven's wing on his face.  And then he did it up again nervously and quickly.  Once he faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the plush red carpet.

On went his Thom Browne jacket; on went his Comme des Garçons snapback.  With a whirl of fabrics and with the brilliant sparkle still in his eyes, he fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where he stopped the sign read: "Madame Sofronie: Hair Goods of All Kinds."  One flight up Jiyong ran, and collected himself, panting.  Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Jiyong.

"I buy hair," said Madame.  "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the black cascade.

"Two million," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.  "And that's only with an autograph on the bag."

"Swag," said Jiyong.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings.  Forget the hashed metaphor.  He was ransacking the boutiques for Bae's present.

He found it at last.  It surely had been made for Bae and no one else.  There was no other like it in any of the stores, and he had turned all of them inside out.  It was a platinum diamond chain, simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation -- as most of their jewelry tended to do.  It was even worthy of The Chrome Hearts Cross.  As soon as he saw it he knew that it must be Bae's.  It was like him.  Quietness and value -- the description applied to both.  Also, short.  Three million won they took from him for it, and he hurried home with the 870k left.  With that chain on his cross Bae might properly decorate himself in any company.  Grand as the cross was, he sometimes wore it on the sly under his clothes on account of the sterling silver chain he used now.

When Jiyong reached home his intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason.  He got out his clippers and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love.  Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends -- a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes his head was covered in a quarter inch of prickly black stubble.  He looked at his reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Bae doesn't kill me," he said to himself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll think I've enlisted in the army.  But what could I do -- oh! What could I do with only one million eight hundred seventy thousand won!"

At 7 o'clock the Red Bull was chilling and the Pizza Rolls were waiting on their paper towel in the microwave.

Bae was never late.  Jiyong doubled the platinum chain in his hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered.  Then he heard a step on the stair away down the first flight, and he turned white for just a moment.  He had a habit for saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now he whispered, "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Bae stepped in and closed it.  He looked thin and very serious.  Poor fellow, he was only twenty-four -- and to be burdened with the extravagant life of a pop-star!  A scarf hid the bottom half of his face, though he was without gloves.

Bae stopped inside the door, as immovable as a Boston terrier at the scent of dropped table scraps.  His eyes were fixed on Jiyong, and there was an expression in them that he could not read, and it terrified him.  It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that he had been prepared for.  He simply stared at him fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Jiyong wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Bae, brosef," he cried, "don't look at me that way.  I had my hair cut and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present.  It'll grow out again -- you won't mind, will you?  I just had to do it.  My hair grows awfully fast.  Say 'Merry Christmas!' Bae, and let's be happy.  You don't know what a nice -- what a swag-tastic gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Bae, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it and sold it," said Jiyong.  "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow?  I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Bae looked around the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air of almost idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Jiyong.  "It's sold, I tell you -- sold and gone, too.  It's Christmas Eve, boy.  Be good to me, for it went for you.  Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," he went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you.  Shall I heat the Pizza Rolls, Bae?"

Out of his trance Bae seemed quickly to wake.  He enfolded his Jiyong, then drew a package from his leather jacket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake about me, Ji," he said, " I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my bro any less.  But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

Ringed and nimble fingers tore at the string and paper.  And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the older of the two.

For there lay The Extensions -- the set of seven, a different color for every day of the week, that Jiyong had worshipped long in a boutique window.  Beautiful extensions, ranging from turquoise to magenta, just the shades to wear in the beautiful vanished hair.  They were limited-edition hair pieces, he knew, and his heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession.  And now, they were his, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But he hugged them to his chest, and at length he was able to look up with dim eyes and smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Bae!"

And then Jiyong leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Bae had not yet seen his beautiful present.  He held it out to him eagerly upon his open palm.  The shining precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of his bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it just the bomb-diggity, Bae? I hunted all over town to find it.  You'll have to wear your cross everyday now.  Give it to me.  I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Bae tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Ji," he said, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while.  They're too nice to use just at present.  I sold the cross to get the money to buy your extensions.  And now suppose you heat up those Pizza Rolls.”

Shock gave way to a tender smile on Jiyong’s face. “Swaggy Christmas, Youngbae,” he said.

“Swaggy Christmas, Jiyong.”