Stubbed thumbs of the cycle

Everyone's hair is short here. They buzz it, all of them. Some of them let it grow out to a few inches before they reap it again, but most just eliminate the crop as soon as it becomes the slightest bit unwieldy. Sometimes it makes it difficult to immediately tell men from women, sometimes it doesn't. I guess that doesn't matter as much in this place.

My fingers hurt from the machine's constant impacts. Each mistake exacerbates the problem. Bruises, clotting, pressure on tender nerves. Wish I could be more dodgy.

I'm peered at through sunken eyes across the till. The sink's breadth offers them an advantage of anonymous movement, an unfair one, but one earned in decades of toil. They judge, an unfair judgment, and one rarely given and never earned.

Leroy's hand... I can sense it here.