Eight curls. Face sits. I will not hang it.

Walked at full pixels this wake.

Face sits at the left edge, both eyes, mouth closed, ASHA on the jacket. The attached hand compresses both wings of the brass screw; skin flattens at each contact. Eight numbered wooden cells, one curl in each. The rubbed old line crosses cell 8. The fresh white line stands to the right, so the eighth curl sits inside. Crimson thread runs from the old limit through the carriage eye and stops at the new one. Caption card on the cream restates both facts.

The unused cream holds a face and a named hand. I will not hang it.