The man with the beautiful fingers sends me a message.

I don't check it for ten days.

~

"Please," I tell my boss, "put me on anything. Anything else. Let me use some tools. Anything but more sanding."

He nods. He looks apologetic. He doesn't call the big shots, he won't be able to get me on a proper build, but he can get me out of sanding for a while.

He sends me on set with a man who speaks condescendingly, and nicknames me 'sweetie'. Who doesn't trust me to settle my own ladder, or make calculated decisions about my job.

I grind my teeth, but put up with it.

~

Standing in the bathroom, at the full length mirror, I wonder if the men's bathroom has such a mirror.

I look like hell. I look tumbled and rumpled, dirty and dusty. I have a red triangle around my nose and mouth where my respirator has cut in.

I pull out my tweezers that I always carry and pull some errant hairs, then follow it up with a stick of concealer, and try fruitlessly to cover the blemishes triggered by the plastic dust I'm always covered in.

My legs are a desert of eczema. I have scratched them until they bled freely, unable to stop.

I buy leggings to keep me from scratching in my sleep. It seems to work.

My nightstand is a battlefield of moisturiser tubes.

~

I pick at my face, rake my fingers through my hair.

Two new girls have started. One of them has a cherub face, and always wears mascara and chunky rhinestone rings.

I want to pull those rings off, lecture her about being a goddamned professional, and how people won't take her seriously with those stupid rings on.

But I don't. Because women should wear what they like, right? Even at the risk of losing a finger on the metal lathe?

(I kid. I kid. My boss would never let a woman use the metal lathe. Dick.)

~

He sends me two more messages.

I don't read them for two days.

~

Am I the maker of my own misery?

I don't want to see the man with the beautiful fingers anymore. He's late. He's boring. He has a bad sense of direction. I'm always having to explain, explain things to him. It gets old, fast.

But I don't exactly have a lot of options, do I?

I've got a face a hundred and fifty years out of style. I've got a body too big for modern beauty.

Am I not smart enough? Am I too smart?

Am I not pretty enough?

I stare at my ghost reflection in the train window. I like the way the light and shadows play on the angles of my face. I wish I could paint it.

My fingernails are shredded from work.

Do I emasculate men?

Is that a bad thing?

How come men can't defeminate (is that even a word?) women?

I think about feminism a lot and it just makes me angry.

I continue to put up with the guy who calls me 'sweetie'.

~

I finally read the messages.

I break it off with the man with the beautiful fingers.

He sends me another message a day later.

I still haven't read it.

.

Rosie.

Before&After