The buttermilk hair mask drizzles past the elastic of my shower cap, but I catch the runoff with my propped-up knee to avoid staining the fabric of the upholstered mahogany chair I dragged from the dining room. In a two-bedroom apartment where the family desktop lives within a crevice of its sole hallway, there isn’t space for a single-purpose chair with the luxe permanence of a preface like ‘computer.’ Or privacy whilst gallivanting across the interwebs, for that matter.
My face is illuminated by the Yahoo! Answers homepage and because I haven’t read clickbait published in 2016 documenting the correlation between screen-time and forehead squiggles, I’m not yet aware that the wrinkles will cancel out my soon-to-be shiny hair.
More of the creamy liquid runs in rivulets down the nape of my neck and I wonder if this is what come feels like as I wander to the “Health” section. I zero in on a question for late bloomers asking women to respond if they “got boobs late.” Thirty-five is the oldest, but due to pregnancy—a throwaway. Second oldest is seventeen. I calculate that I have five years left just as my mother returns from the corner store.
It’s back to Neopets for the evening. A yellowish trail glides down my chest as I log in.