The hardest part of professional mourning is getting your hair back into your head. Francesca’s expected to rip out big hanks of it when the decedent passes her, and with four services a week she could be bald (and crying real tears).
“AAAAAAAAAA you see Ladonna? I’m sure she’s wearing dark blueEEEEAAAAAA,” she mutters to Edivige.
Edivige yanks out some of the strands they carefully braided in earlier. “Thinks she’s fooling everyone, too,” she agrees. “WHYYYEEE.”
“Bet UNGH spilled sauce UNGH her black one at thUNGH Santoni wake.”
“So unprofessional,” sniffs Edivige, and prepares for her running leap into the coffin.