Me.
Delicate, straw, straight, blown, auburn, blonde, perfect.
(Hair)
The hairdresser nods at me as she finishes my blow-out, spinning me around in the chair so I
face my own reflection. She pushes my hair over my shoulders. “You’re gorg,” she says.
Sticky, oily, aching, leathered, dry, wet, orange, white.
(Skin)
I lather sun-oil and place my towel down on the chair. I lay down, stomach up. The sun’s warmth
seeps exhaustion into my bones.
Chapped, lined, glossed, plump, tangy, brown, pink, smug.
(Lips)
A curl of my lips expresses my distaste for the cocktail I was just served. Disgusting. Too sweet.
Too expensive. Needs another shot.
Natural, clean, short.
(Nails)
The last time I had claws on my hands, I broke a $30 nail tying a bikini that was too big for me.
Never again.
Bulbous, rock, sparkling, dangling, circular.
(Jewelry)
A bracelet that turns my wrist green paired with a necklace my Italian grandmother passed
down to me. They’re exactly the same style, created decades apart.
Striking, big, blue, overlined.
(Eyes)
If you think that I’m putting this face underneath the water, you must be stupider than my
ex-husband who thought he could hide his affair with the babysitter.
Timeless, iconic, classy, stylish, It.
(Me)
