// rear view//

At stoplights, my mother would look into the rearview and try to pluck a hair from under her chin with her fingertips. But it just looked like she was plucking at her skin. I couldn’t understand it. And I only remember this from a few times, when I was in the backseat. But, the pulling of skin, it sticks.

What are you doing? I’d question. Stop it.
She didn’t.
She also had, still has, a nervous fingernail picking habit—so short that you can hear the picking like a thud on her skin. I wince(d).
Now an adult, I tell her to quit it.
At my desk, I feel the coarseness of a hair, a surprise, under my chin. I squeeze it between my thumb and forefinger, my nail pressing in. It’s too short to get at. My skin’s hot and it’s probably red, but I keep trying to pluck it.