I look like a sad, grotesque clown, she thought.
She had tried to wear lipstick, to plump up her lips, taking the eye off her pointy chin, but her lips were thin so it wore off fast and her complexion olive, so finding a colour that didn’t make her skin look jaundiced or deathly pale was like hunting for a needle in a haystack.
Her face, she decided, was like the quilts her mother used to sew with pieces of old sweaters. A mishmash of clashing colours and uneven textures. It was now, crowned with a puss-filled piece de resistance.