Gina didn’t mind her thirties. They were far and away, an improvement from her twenties except for her body’s insistence on manifesting her supposed internal clock with the appearance of those ghastly facial hairs. It was a personal betrayal every time one of those fine blond hairs on her chin or above her lip turned dark and thick. Heavy enough to catch on her fingertips. The blue medical masks they wore at work covered her face most of the time, except during lunch, where everyone could see. Plus, she could feel them. Nothing was quite as unsettling as licking chocolate off her upper lip and catching on a thick, gnarly hair.
This was why she stood in front of her bathroom mirror, already ten minutes late for her shift, pushing and tugging at her face to expose those little black devils to her tweezers. The only sure way was to tweeze them out individually. Waxing or, God forbid, shaving would make it ten times worse. Who knew how many hairs would turn traitor if she had the audacity to take a razor to her chin? She squinted, pulling what she hoped was the final villainous hair from her chin, groaning at the visible black stubs too short to get a grip on that were already growing in.
No, she didn’t mind her thirties, but the additional body hair could blow. It was hard enough finding a job with insurance, which she could lose if she was late again. She needed to quit plucking at her face and get a move on. Sighing, Gina tossed her tweezers into the drawer and rushed out the door, barely remembering to grab her purse.
She made it all the way downstairs before she realized she forgot to brush her teeth.
“Shit,” she cursed quietly, hesitating on the last step. Go back and make herself later than she already was, or suffer inside her mask? Most places were relaxed with their indoor rules now per the state mandates, but her job still insisted on full face coverings. Sensible for the close- spaced office, though she might pass out from her own morning breath.
Gina hustled downstairs, the rattling shelf of snow globes announcing her harried footsteps. The stairwell spilled into a wonderland of Big Foot paraphernalia; detailed rubber masks, wood carvings and reliefs with pictorial forest scenes with the hairy humanoid peeking out amid the trees, T-shirts, mugs, and the snow globes. Two dozen miniature Big Foots shivered in their watery spheres, their melted wax-like features silently judging her.
“What’s the trouble, dearie?” Eileen was already up and about in the shop, rearranging the brochures on the tray.
The question made Gina wince. She was later than she thought. “You don’t happen to have a piece of gum on you, Miss Eileen?”
“I may have a pack of the chicory on me.” Eileen patted the front of her apron and, miracle of miracles, produced a pack of off-label gum. Gina went to grab it when the old woman stopped her, a stern look on her wrinkled face. “No more than one stick a day, dearie.”
Gina raised a brow at the warning but nodded and thanked her. Eileen shooed her on, lifting her rearranged brochure tray to place it back in the outstretched arms of the six-foot-tall Big Foot sculpture.