On Being Mandy

by Sandra M. Odell

Mandy Adams noticed her face peeling off while coloring her hair Monday evening. She leaned over the sink for a closer look at the small flap of skin on the upper right corner of her forehead. She slipped off one of the plastic gloves and gingerly touched it with the tip of a finger; it was thicker than she expected, almost rubbery. Surprisingly, touching it didn’t hurt; in fact, there was no sensation at all.

Mandy carefully took hold of the errant skin between her thumb and index finger and gave a slight tug. It pulled away enough to reveal a hard off-white surface below the edge of her hairline, smooth and cool to the touch like plastic. No blood, no viscera; the revealed underside was the fresh pink of new skin. “What the hell. . .?”