There’s a sandwich-board lady trying to hand out fliers every morning on 46th Street. Looks to be 50ish but she’s probably just 40ish; split-ended, over-bleached, over-teased hair; tired skin; swollen knuckles; a weary voice that smoked too many cigarettes on street corners in Bay Ridge back in 1971. “No, thank you,” I always mutter as I walk past. But every next morning, there she is again: “Manicures. Facials. Eyebrow waxing.”