Mannequins Don't Have Faces

I set the paper down.

In front of me were wedges of wood conjoined together to make limbs, with nails and screws keeping the joints intact and articulate. An oval head glued sharp to the torso, with hoof-like hands and a body withheld on a base, anatomically accurate. These wooden figures shouldn't just be used, but dolled up to serve as a blank slate for creativity for they are just as emotive as humans when posed or guised in the right way.

* * *

Mannequins. Dummies. Dolls.

But no one talks about their faces, it's only their body, how they bear poses, how they look or connect. Truth is — these vessels have no face to show. If you really want to push it, their 'face' discerns the grainy texture of wood, all neatly sanded away to prevent splinters. Surely that wouldn't account for a face. That's pushing, mannequins don't have a profile, they're simply placeholders for us to tack on whatever we wish them to don...

So I'm a mannequin too? Am I supposed to sanely smile? To laugh? To cry?

I don't, though. I can't. I don't even have a face.

* * *

I hear they make more detailed mannequins now.

Still unsatisfied, I stroked the lines lighter, the pencil marked out an outline of an ovoid face, specks of rubber dust congregating on the table as a telltale sign of my effort.

I apologise, I meant how I saw that size-accurate ones are used now to show off brands, displayed behind panes of glass on shopfronts. Melded plastic moulded into place with limbs still connected by metallic joints. But in exchange, there are more details in their scaling, hands that no longer looked like elongated hooves and finer, more detailed features such as ears or contour of lips that accommodate the face. There's more weight on their chest and their toes aren't cutouts of shovels anymore as the occasional footing of shoes or heels needs to be slid onto.

* * *

There is a loss in it though, some poses become more difficult for them.

I switch out for the blue pencil, sharpening its blunt head and shading in the girl's light-blue pupils.

No joints around the elbow or kneecaps means difficult configuration of movement. For most retailers or shop owners, that's plenty fine, these dummies weren't there for dynamic posing, they're there to display clothes on idealistic bodies. Well, at least you can now tell the sex of these mannequins, with such lips and features; for women, it's hard not to distinguish the notion of it. More so when they're all the same unrealistic curvy shape, an inflated chest and a sleek waistline, truly an 'ideal' projection of a human body preached in bias.

* * *

I place the pencil down, tilting my head upwards in order to stroke the itching horn. It curves to a gradual bend, its surface smooth with a point as sharp as a golden dagger towards the end.

Horns make them fear.

Head still resting on my incomplete illustrated portrait, I glanced over the miniature doll, the very same one I'd posed for a reference earlier. A while back and at a different resident, I had entirely painted it pink. Not the in-your-face pink but a softer one, more peach-like and toned down. I didn't like the plainness of wood.

* * *

"Show it to me again! Show me again!"

It wasn't always all gloomy like this, before living alone, I used to be happy.