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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 57 eyelid, that's it. Black liner. My eyebrows are all wrong. My head is too round. Purple up at the corner, that's it. . . . Oh, hell. All it looks like is I've got two black eyes! Wash it off again. I leaned my arms on the edge of the washbasin, bent toward the mirror, waist-long pale hair swinging in my eyes. Absurd. Oh, shining flame hair, titian locks. White teeth glistening through blood crimson lips. Skin like milk. Delicate arched brows, delicate purple shadows. Not me. The pain of innocence. Down the drain. Who chose me this face? Genes and chromosomes. Sperm and ova. Without any make-up I am invisible. I disappear. "Jenny," I said. "Cut my hair." She did. "Oh," I said. "It looks like a broom!" Pale blond hair curled in long circles on the floor. I began to cry. "I'm sorry," Jenny said. "I never said I could cut hair." I climbed onto the bed, on my knees, holding the cut hair in my hands. "I'm sorry, Jo. I really am. ..." She touched my arm, and I pushed her away. She said, "But it's not too bad, is it? It won't crack the mirror." Touch me. Don't touch me. No room, no room, shouted the Mad Hatter. Poor Alice. |
