He was large, in the chest and the face and the elbows of his cheekbones shone blasted pink. Two thin sheaves of white hair swept up from his temples to his bare skull and wrapped it.
(Jack Cox, Dodge Rose)
And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.
Day I caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a little. Was given milk too long. On the Erin’s King that day round the Kish. Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf loose in the wind with her hair.
Identity cards are no real proof of identity, of course, but he had a scar, from his father, from a night with too much bathtub vodka. It was there, a black star on his forearm, dry and cold.
(Tessa Lunney, ‘Vitali’, Southerly 75.3)
…where anxiety and dysmorphia thrived symbiotically with the serried ranks of beauticians, cosmeticians, chemists, and the nail salons, whose bright windows presented a kind of colonialist tableau: small, deft Asian women working tirelessly on the long white feet of their blonde customers, painting and burnishing their pink toenails up to a violent and barbarous red…
(Elias Greig, ‘The whale ghosts’, Contrappasso)