Her fringe falls into her eyes,
Weighed down with grease and product:
The air around her hangs thick with hairspray.
Skin cells flake, scattering with the ferocity
Of the central heating system. Bitten-down
Nails and cuticles clench the salmon waffle-printed
Gown: wrapping it around her frame.

This isn't airbrushed, this is real life.

Sunlight creeps through bare patches
In the heavy curtains. Stray,
Brittle hairs dance in the temperature regulated
Air, as fine as lametta, tumbling over bare
Shoulders, like streamers strewn across a Christmas tree.
The flash bathes her face momentarily:
Light kissing her skin as the shutter contracts.

This isn't glamour, this is unbecoming.

As the beam speckles her towelled skin,
She grabs the hemming of the folded,
Dirty cloth: the ends of her fingers
Impress soft palms through
The worn fabric. Dark purple
Rings beneath her eyes intensify the stare:
Grey looks deeper with something to compare it with.

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