One wisp of hair, a puff, a vapour. My hand hovers to fix it but I daren’t touch in case it wafts away for good.
“Opens your face up,” chirps Harriet, behind me at the mirror. “Reveals your eyes more!”
Ah, my eyes. Tynan wrote of my Othello that a single sideways glance from me could pin the back row to their seats, leave them panting and bruised. Or was that the Northern Echo? Harriet used to read the reviews to me while I wiped the slap off after, though I suspect she made half of the quotes up to paper over what she left out.
The bulbs around this mirror are so bright, I can’t see her reflection. Just this damn face. Eyes like Bloody Marys. Her voice comes out of the gloom: “Come on, Captain Hook. It’s time. The children are waiting.” A pirate hat swallows my wisp.