Her hair is cut uneven, and never really stays in place, she has no control over it, ironic considering how control was what she was searching for among the locks of hair on the white bathroom floor.

She perpetually smells of stale cigarettes, again ironic considering how it made her nauseous once, how she begged him to stop smoking, how she hated the very idea of them and now how she went through a pack faster than you could spell one, how she started it to feel closer to him once more, to have a part of him with her, and now how she smokes to die faster.