Meinir slides under the surface. Through the warped lens of the bath water, the ceiling spotlights are like four alien suns, or surgical task lights in an operating theatre: their disinfecting glare cleansing her of doubt.
Emerging from the bathwater, Meinir quickly reaches for the can of shaving foam and Bic razor from the lip of the bath. There was a time, not so long ago, when the growth of fine wheat-coloured hair on her legs was exhilarating—part of a longed-for process of transformation—but the hairs are thicker now, tawnier, with a zoological quality that makes Meinir uneasy. Pressing down on the nozzle of the can, a foaming orb, the size of a golf ball, fizzes like bug spit in Meinir’s hand. Working the foam onto her legs, she drags the razor against the direction of hair growth.
