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Mountains and Molehills
By Dallas Starcher Some people have a way of staying the same for decades at a time, looming mountains to the saplings that grow in the valley every year. Hair teased up into a half-hearted beehive, strawberry-white and pieced together by can after can of noxious hairspray, crime-scene tape barring the bathroom door in rows upon rows of stacked-up warning: don’t go in there, it’ll suffocate you. Jewelry jangles on her hands: a ring for every finger, gold and gleaming, as shiny as a crow’s nest after a season of stealing. Eyeshadow and blush perfectly placed, her soft lipstick outlining a mouth so thin tightrope walkers could use it for…
