texture of mud. She massaged it into her scalp, remembering to do her eyebrows and eyelashes.
When she had rinsed and dried, the mirror showed a strong chestnut. It suited her, suited her eyes, her mouth. She liked it. She turned this way and that, letting the cool northern light that seeped into the bathroom and reflected from the tiles play over the hair. It looked so good it was probably pretty close to her natural color. She smiled at her reflection: disguising herself by making her hair her real color had a certain ironic appeal.
She walked into the living room. “What do you think?”
Spanner turned after a moment. Said nothing.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m not sure brown is the right color.”
Lore flushed. “I don’t understand.”
“Come into the bathroom with me.” Spanner positioned Lore in front of the mirror, hands on her shoulders. Lore did not like the possessive feel of those hands, but it was Spanner’s bathroom, Spanner’s mirror. “Now, take a look at yourself, a really good look. Then look at me.”
Lore studied herself. Brown hair, straight brown eyebrows, clear gray eyes, skin a little paler than usual but still tight-pored and healthy. Thinner than she used to be. Even teeth. She thought she looked remarkably good, considering what she had been through. “I think I look fine.”
“Now look at me.”
Spanner’s skin was big-pored over her nose and cheekbones. There was a tiny scar by her mouth. Her teeth were uneven, her neck thin. Her complexion had a grayish tinge, like meat left just a little too long. Lore thought she looked a lot better than Spanner.
Spanner was nodding at her in the mirror. “Exactly. You see the difference? You’re too damn . . . glossy. Like a racehorse. Look at your eyes, and your teeth. They’re perfect. And your skin: not a single pimple and no scars. Everything’s symmetrical. You’re bursting with health. Go out in this neighborhood, even in rags, and you’ll shine like a lighthouse.”
Lore looked at herself again. It was true. Eighteen years of uninterrupted health care and nutritious food on top of three generations of good breeding had given her that unmistakable sheen of the hereditary rich. She was suddenly aware of the cold tile under her feet, of the cracks she could feel between her toes. It was not yet winter. She wondered what it would be like to be cold involuntarily. She touched her eyebrows, her nose. How strange to discover something about oneself in a stranger’s bathroom. “I assume it can be fixed.”
Spanner dipped her hand into a pocket and pulled out a stubby buzz razor. Lore backed away from the flickering hum of its blade, remembering blood, the plasthene sheet. Spanner laughed, lightly enough, but Lore heard the cruelty in it: Spanner knew Lore had been scared, and enjoyed it. “It’s for your eyebrows. Cut them a bit, make them uneven.” Lore took the sleek black razor, not taking her eyes off Spanner. “I’m going to get a different dye, one that doesn’t suit you as much.”
Spanner brought back red dye and some peroxide. “And here.” Spanner gave her a tube of depilatory cream. “Get rid of the rest of your body hair, unless you want to dye it strand by strand.”
In the shower, her hair and the cream washed away in gelatinous clumps, leaving Lore as smooth and bare as a baby. Naked in a new way.
Spanner wiped the mirror free of condensation and Lore, still dripping, looked at her new self. The red hair made her face pale, pinched and hungry as a fox. Spanner stood behind her and stroked her hair. “Red was the right choice,” she whispered, and kissed Lore’s left shoulder blade. Her hand ran down Lore’s ribs, over her hip, up her belly. “So smooth.” She kissed the back of her neck. “Lift your arms.” Spanner ran her palms over the hairless armpits, down over the hairless breasts. Lore could feel Spanner’s nipples pebbling through her shirt up against her shoulder blades. Condensation ran in streaks down the mirror. Lore watched Spanner’s hand reach down and cup her naked vulva. She closed her eyes, listened to Spanner’s hoarse breath in her ear.
I am hairless and newly born.
It did not matter that Spanner might have seen her helpless and naked on the newstanks, because this was not the real Lore. This was someone different, someone’s creation. A construct. One she could hide behind. One that would make her safe. Just as she thought she had been with