Setting: A quiet tea shop in Hangzhou, China. Two longtime friends, Li Wei (the rational thinker) and Zhang Peng (the superstitious believer), are sipping chrysanthemum tea on a rainy afternoon.
Zhang Peng: (noticing a green baseball cap on the rack) Whoa! That hat is cursed. Who in their right mind would buy that?
Li Wei: (laughs) It’s just a hat, Peng. It’s not like it whispers betrayal into your ears.
Zhang Peng: Don’t joke, Wei. You know what it means! In China, a green hat means your partner is cheating on you. You might as well tattoo “cuckold” on your forehead.
Li Wei: That’s a bit extreme. It’s just a color. Green didn’t sneak off with your wife—if someone cheats, it’s not because of a hat!
Zhang Peng: Easy for you to say. Remember Lao Liu from the shipping office? He wore a green hat to work once, and three weeks later his girlfriend dumped him for her yoga instructor.
Li Wei: That had nothing to do with the hat. She probably liked someone who could touch his toes without sounding like a dying goose.
Zhang Peng: Still! Coincidence? I don’t think so.
Li Wei: Okay, but think about this. If green hats really caused infidelity, wouldn’t the whole of Ireland be single?
Zhang Peng: That’s not the same. It’s about our culture. The phrase “戴绿帽子” literally links green hats with being cheated on. It goes back to ancient times—something about a man whose wife cheated and he had to wear green so everyone would know.
Li Wei: Historical, yes, but also symbolic. In ancient times, executioners wore red. That doesn’t mean everyone in a red coat today is about to behead someone.
Zhang Peng: Maybe, but symbols have power. It’s like how people avoid the number 4 because it sounds like “death.” It’s not scientific, but it feels… real. Like a warning.
Li Wei: True, symbols carry meaning. But we assign that meaning, Peng. Science would say there’s no evidence that green fabric alters human behavior. Unless someone’s allergic to dye, there’s no logical reason to avoid a green cap.
Zhang Peng: Maybe logic isn’t everything. Feelings matter too. You wouldn’t wear white to a funeral in the West, right? Even if it’s just fabric, it sends a message.
Li Wei: Fair point. But what if the superstition limits you? Like—what if someone gifts you a green cashmere scarf, and you reject it because of some centuries-old phrase?
Zhang Peng: I’d re-gift it. Or dye it.
Li Wei: (laughing) And what if your future boss wears green to the interview?
Zhang Peng: Then I hope they’re happily married.
Li Wei: You know, I had a green hoodie all through college. You met my girlfriend back then—she never cheated.
Zhang Peng: Hmm. Maybe you’re the exception. Or maybe your girlfriend was colorblind.
Li Wei: Or maybe, just maybe, it’s time you gave green a chance. Tell you what: I’ll buy that green hat, and if no romantic disasters hit me in a week, you buy me dinner.
Zhang Peng: And if something does happen?
Li Wei: Then I’ll wear a full green suit and declare you the Grand Master of Superstition.
Zhang Peng: Deal! But don’t come crying to me if your plants start dying or your cat runs away.
Li Wei: I don’t have a cat.
Zhang Peng: You will—and it’ll leave you the moment it sees that hat.
They both burst out laughing, sipping their tea as the rain continues to fall outside. The debate is unresolved, but the friendship remains green—in the best way possible.
Science Vs Superstition 
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