Pinocchio studied himself in the bathroom mirror, sandpaper in hand.
Being a little wooden boy had been tough; being a hormonal wooden teenager was downright miserable. His only choice was suffering through the changes. The growth spurts stretching his pine body. The yarn growing where there wasn’t yarn before. The awkward ‘morning nose’—even when he hadn’t fibbed.
But, he thought, here’s one advantage puppet puberty has over people puberty. He scrubbed the sandpaper against his chin, easily buffing away two wood-rot pimples.
He smirked at his polished reflection. He’d saved just enough time before school to tug his strings.