It was me at 17.
A woman there promised they could make my face look “more feminine.”
I remembered the powder, the young employee beside the camera, and the adults discussing my upper lip as though I couldn’t hear them.
“That much hair will be difficult to conceal.”
A woman there promised they could make my face look “more feminine.”
“She’ll need regular treatment.”
“Girls are terribly sensitive at this age.”
I had stared at my hands until the appointment ended, then cried in the restroom.
I had tried not to remember that afternoon.
“She’ll need regular treatment.”
***
I looked up at Arthur.
“Where did you get this?”
Arthur sat opposite me.
“I worked for the company that produced those consultation photographs.”
I stared.
“Where did you get this?”
“You?”
“I was 19,” he said. “It was one of my first jobs.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The young employee.
The camera.
