Grant Bailie

The bacon mask is probably what started Lulu's itching. As far as she could recall, she was not allergic to pork or porcine products, but as far as she could recall she had not been exposed to any in years. Things could have changed since then and it was not like she had ever had bacon draped over her face in layers before.
The bacon formed the sort of horrific covering you might see on the killer in a horror movie. She could feel the fat of it seeping into her skin and that was probably what it was supposed to do. That was probably how it worked.
She was uncertain of the itching. Was that beneficial as well? She wanted to scratch, but she didn't want to reach up to her face and feel raw bacon instead of skin.
"It itches," she told the salon woman.
The salon woman did not speak much English. It was impossible to say what she did speak. She was blonde but with strange eyes. Lulu could not figure out what country or region she might have come from.
"Good," the salon woman said.
"Itching is good?"
"You look good."
"I mean, is it supposed to itch?"
"Makes you look good."
After the procedure was over the bacon was peeled away and tossed into the garbage. Lulu thought vaguely of starving people in India, but then again, did people in India even eat bacon? Probably not. Pigs were probably sacred or unclean or both.
She left the salon and waited for Glen in the park. The park was by the mouth of the river, and the whole time she was there, giant freighters were being pulled or pushed up the river by tug boats. The tug boats reminded Lulu of football players, the way they seemed to hunker down in the water, putting their shoulders into their jobs.
Glen was late. He usually was. Her face still itched but not as much as before. She scratched her chin and then her forehead. She hoped she looked pretty for him, that her skin now glowed as promised, but she could not get the smell of raw bacon out of her nose.