The only language the cosmetologist understood — the woman knew this with a sure and certain knowledge — was the language of skin.

You can visit the cosmetologist whenever you feel troubled, but you must arm yourself with phrases like My face is bloated or My skin is dehydrated, it lost its luster and is showing faint wrinkles or else you must resort to such scientific-sounding expressions as My epidermis is lacking collagen again.

And the cosmetologist — so the woman was convinced for no apparent reason — will understand that these aren’t mere words, but that they conceal mountain ranges of sobbing and deserts of heartache penetrating the body like a small hungry animal too cute to be dexterously annihilated.