Petranilla's mass of curly brown hair was not tidy, ever. It escaped hold of every thong, ribbon or barrette used to tie it away from her face. This didn't stop the woman from trying. More often than not, her unruly locks were piled high atop her head and twisted into a knot, but loose strands always escaped, falling over her neck and cheeks at the most irritating of moments.

These typical moments usually had her pursing a neat little bow of a mouth into a thoughtful pucker, and drawing in dark eyebrows to look hawk like past the narrow bridge of her nose toward some hen-scratched piece of litter that she'd picked up and made additional use out of for her own form of notetaking. These were unscrupulously stuffed down the front of her blouse, into a snug fitting corset, where of course, they would remain safe from anyone else.

Somehow, even in the lean days where she scraped by on the generosity of others, this woman managed to retain some thickness around her thighs, stomach and hips. It leant her a curvy figure that was not at all indicative of her hand to mouth existence. Even so, good luck getting an eyeful of it. More often than not the woman was pulled in tight as a sausage, wraps and layers of clothing (by necessity of never knowing where she would find a roof for the night) encasing her body until she was markedly lacking in curves. Ever the pragmatist, her penchant strapping herself tight and discouraging wanton looks from those she passed by worked just fine for her.