She is an old woman. She does not come from anywhere. She simply exists.
She has been old for a while. Her birthdays are uncounted. She does not remember being young. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she sits up in bed, clutching fabric to her throat, and glances about. As if she can hear the past; as if she can feel it, words pressing and kneading against her skull. Memories ebbing and flowing. It is so hard to let go of indistinct forms at night. Sometimes she turns on the light. More often than not she just lies there, tense and shaking, jaw tight.
She is short, and wears the same pair of shoes everywhere. She has flat feet. The skin on them is waxy and smooth. She will arrive at the show and wait for them to find her name on the list, and she will lean onto the backs of her heels. She will close her eyes, swaying slightly, waiting and listening as papers flip, as fingers scrape down smooth surface. It always takes a long time. Eventually she is let in. Someone always complains about her being held up, and then stalks off, indignant, ready to complain to someone else. Nothing changes. She changes least of all. She watches them leave, and then curls around to the dressing room, where she finds the young ones waiting.
They pause their conversation to look at her; she looks at them, and then at the floor or the wall, walking over to the opposite end of the room. The girl there is usually a bit of an outcast; she sits away from the others, in the corner. The woman will set her bag on the counter, and reach forward, touching the girl’s chin. Tilting her head up, fixing her posture. The girl will stare into the mirror, and then flick her eyes upward, nervous, confused. The hand will be steady; she will relax. For when she looks into the woman’s eyes she sees no recognition. She will not remember this.
The woman will pull at her hair briefly, and make no comment. Pin bits of it back and stare at the mirror for a second. Spin the chair around, and begin drawing on the face. She makes practiced strokes and sometimes she makes silly strokes and then corrects them. The girl cannot see her face until the chair is turned back around. It is better that way.
Her face is offered to her again, and the woman pushes away powders and brushes, and takes the curls lightly in her fingers. Her nails are clipped and not polished; hair will catch on one rough edge. She will slowly, solemnly, untangle it. She will begin to pull hair back, neaten it, slick it down. The girl will not move unless she is manipulated. When the woman is done, the girl will jerk upward, reacting to the weight lifted from her shoulders.
The woman will move down the line.
Later, after it is done, after the sun has set and cameras flashed and the catwalk is quiet, she will finish waiting to be paid (in cash, always), and move toward the door. She will stop a bit before and zip up her coat, lifting her chin to look at the corner of a hallway. Feeling the cold of night before it hits her.
The girl will stop her, and grasp her shoulder, catch her hand. She will turn around. The girl’s face will be clean now, and her hair loose. Almost the same as before.
“I wanted to thank you for today; it was nice.”
The woman will blink. The girl will look away and then up again, finding her face.
“The people who usually come are very loud or confused or — they do not know what to do. I did not know what to think when you came in the door but you know what to do. The others think so too, you know; you did not shy away from any of them — you are very talented —”
The woman will look down at her pocket, where the money sits, and back at the girl.
“Yes, I suppose it is why you — are — mm — I have not seen you at a shoot or a show before, though. Which is odd.”
“You are very —” Her voice is strained. “Young.”
The girl nods. “I have been a lot of places lately. I have seen many like you.”
The woman says nothing.
The girl will swallow. “They say I am going to go all over the world. They say I can.”
The woman will sweep her eyes away, and take a step forward, edging past her. There is a bruise on her delicate wrist that matches one on her spine. The girl makes a sound in her throat; the woman grasps the handle of the door and yanks it, stepping out into the cold.
She is an old woman. She does not come from anywhere. She simply exists.
She has been old for a while. Her birthdays are uncounted. She does not remember being young. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she sits up in bed, clutching fabric to her throat, and glances about. As if she can hear the past; as if she can feel it, words pressing and kneading against her skull. Memories ebbing and flowing. It is so hard to let go of indistinct forms at night. Sometimes she turns on the light. More often than not she just lies there, tense and shaking, jaw tight.
She is short, and wears the same pair of shoes everywhere. She has flat feet. The skin on them is waxy and smooth. She will arrive at the show and wait for them to find her name on the list, and she will lean onto the backs of her heels. She will close her eyes, swaying slightly, waiting and listening as papers flip, as fingers scrape down smooth surface. It always takes a long time. Eventually she is let in. Someone always complains about her being held up, and then stalks off, indignant, ready to complain to someone else. Nothing changes. She changes least of all. She watches them leave, and then curls around to the dressing room, where she finds the young ones waiting.
They pause their conversation to look at her; she looks at them, and then at the floor or the wall, walking over to the opposite end of the room. The girl there is usually a bit of an outcast; she sits away from the others, in the corner. The woman will set her bag on the counter, and reach forward, touching the girl’s chin. Tilting her head up, fixing her posture. The girl will stare into the mirror, and then flick her eyes upward, nervous, confused. The hand will be steady; she will relax. For when she looks into the woman’s eyes she sees no recognition. She will not remember this.
The woman will pull at her hair briefly, and make no comment. Pin bits of it back and stare at the mirror for a second. Spin the chair around, and begin drawing on the face. She makes practiced strokes and sometimes she makes silly strokes and then corrects them. The girl cannot see her face until the chair is turned back around. It is better that way.
Her face is offered to her again, and the woman pushes away powders and brushes, and takes the curls lightly in her fingers. Her nails are clipped and not polished; hair will catch on one rough edge. She will slowly, solemnly, untangle it. She will begin to pull hair back, neaten it, slick it down. The girl will not move unless she is manipulated. When the woman is done, the girl will jerk upward, reacting to the weight lifted from her shoulders.
The woman will move down the line.
Later, after it is done, after the sun has set and cameras flashed and the catwalk is quiet, she will finish waiting to be paid (in cash, always), and move toward the door. She will stop a bit before and zip up her coat, lifting her chin to look at the corner of a hallway. Feeling the cold of night before it hits her.
The girl will stop her, and grasp her shoulder, catch her hand. She will turn around. The girl’s face will be clean now, and her hair loose. Almost the same as before.
“I wanted to thank you for today; it was nice.”
The woman will blink. The girl will look away and then up again, finding her face.
“The people who usually come are very loud or confused or — they do not know what to do. I did not know what to think when you came in the door but you know what to do. The others think so too, you know; you did not shy away from any of them — you are very talented —”
The woman will look down at her pocket, where the money sits, and back at the girl.
“Yes, I suppose it is why you — are — mm — I have not seen you at a shoot or a show before, though. Which is odd.”
“You are very —” Her voice is strained. “Young.”
The girl nods. “I have been a lot of places lately. I have seen many like you.”
The woman says nothing.
The girl will swallow. “They say I am going to go all over the world. They say I can.”
The woman will sweep her eyes away, and take a step forward, edging past her. There is a bruise on her delicate wrist that matches one on her spine. The girl makes a sound in her throat; the woman grasps the handle of the door and yanks it, stepping out into the cold.
She is an old woman. She does not come from anywhere. She simply exists.