If there hadn't been wiry black pubic hair blatantly escaping from the top of her jeans, the makeup artist would have looked fourteen. She was idly curling the loose ends of a strawberry blond afro-clown wig and asking the photographer how her English got so good. I clasped a sweating glass of tea and let CNN absorb me, feeling hungover.
The stylist arrived and made an accusatory comment about my atmosphere, saying she could tell I was a musician. They would change that.
They coaxed me into plaid tights with a silky white dress and the stylist's own enormous yellow high tops, which were just snug. The poufy wig was well suited to my drawn-on complexion--everyone agreed. I rode side saddle on the back of the photographer's bike to a gravel parking lot. They handed me a bottle of blue imported mineral water as a prop and the doe-eyed makeup girl delicately wiped the sweat from my upper lip with her index finger. The photographer was waiting for the sun to go behind a cloud. They fanned me from either side. I told them they really didn't have to do that, but they disagreed. Knowing they probably didn't want the stars melting off my face, I let them continue fanning me like a queen, too groggy and hot to protest.
Turn your head this way.
Oh my GOD that's cute.
Pretend you're sad.
Cute, Cute, Cuuuuute!
I was barely there. I was a scarecrow clothes hanger. I didn't say very much, nor could I listen hard. I wanted to be in bed. I was supposed to be glowing with vitality today, but as a result of my condition, I was the weak element in this four-person charade. I felt guilty and told myself to try harder.
You know, you really act like a Japanese person.
Yeah, most Americans we work with complain a lot more.
I was happy to hear this, but wondered if it meant they could sense the extent to which I was holding in my discomfort. The stylist knew. I could tell by the critical way she was looking at me--the way someone looks at her own face in the mirror. It made sense; I was wearing all her Work. I was her body. She probably wanted me to look happier in her clothes, or at least thinner.
After five artful combinations of clothing and face-drawings, everyone ate Thai curry and spring rolls together. We talked about our burgeoning careers in fashion and fantasized about publication in So-En. It was all so romantic that my food rumbled from within the stylist's high waisted woolen skirt, climbed up past the Oklahoma style crocheted vest she'd chosen, through the plastic seashell necklace and into the toilet. The painted-on freckles fell off and were flushed down as well, and I threw in the false eyelashes for luck. The whole outfit somehow found its way into the toilet bowl and I didn't stop it.
I emerged from the lavatory without their Work; an empty palette. I don't think they could see me anymore after that, because nobody said I looked cute. I mentioned that I was a little bit hot and they gazed blankly. Sweat dripped and smeared my mascara and nobody flinched. They just blew smoke into the early night and chuckled about something the makeup artist's fiance had said. I wondered where I should put my hands but no one instructed me. It was several hours later, after I'd gone home, cleaned out my medicine cabinet, and scrubbed the entryway that I was able to regain control of my body.
The stylist arrived and made an accusatory comment about my atmosphere, saying she could tell I was a musician. They would change that.
They coaxed me into plaid tights with a silky white dress and the stylist's own enormous yellow high tops, which were just snug. The poufy wig was well suited to my drawn-on complexion--everyone agreed. I rode side saddle on the back of the photographer's bike to a gravel parking lot. They handed me a bottle of blue imported mineral water as a prop and the doe-eyed makeup girl delicately wiped the sweat from my upper lip with her index finger. The photographer was waiting for the sun to go behind a cloud. They fanned me from either side. I told them they really didn't have to do that, but they disagreed. Knowing they probably didn't want the stars melting off my face, I let them continue fanning me like a queen, too groggy and hot to protest.
Turn your head this way.
Oh my GOD that's cute.
Pretend you're sad.
Cute, Cute, Cuuuuute!
I was barely there. I was a scarecrow clothes hanger. I didn't say very much, nor could I listen hard. I wanted to be in bed. I was supposed to be glowing with vitality today, but as a result of my condition, I was the weak element in this four-person charade. I felt guilty and told myself to try harder.
You know, you really act like a Japanese person.
Yeah, most Americans we work with complain a lot more.
I was happy to hear this, but wondered if it meant they could sense the extent to which I was holding in my discomfort. The stylist knew. I could tell by the critical way she was looking at me--the way someone looks at her own face in the mirror. It made sense; I was wearing all her Work. I was her body. She probably wanted me to look happier in her clothes, or at least thinner.
After five artful combinations of clothing and face-drawings, everyone ate Thai curry and spring rolls together. We talked about our burgeoning careers in fashion and fantasized about publication in So-En. It was all so romantic that my food rumbled from within the stylist's high waisted woolen skirt, climbed up past the Oklahoma style crocheted vest she'd chosen, through the plastic seashell necklace and into the toilet. The painted-on freckles fell off and were flushed down as well, and I threw in the false eyelashes for luck. The whole outfit somehow found its way into the toilet bowl and I didn't stop it.
I emerged from the lavatory without their Work; an empty palette. I don't think they could see me anymore after that, because nobody said I looked cute. I mentioned that I was a little bit hot and they gazed blankly. Sweat dripped and smeared my mascara and nobody flinched. They just blew smoke into the early night and chuckled about something the makeup artist's fiance had said. I wondered where I should put my hands but no one instructed me. It was several hours later, after I'd gone home, cleaned out my medicine cabinet, and scrubbed the entryway that I was able to regain control of my body.
1 comment:
this is so good. i want to meet everyone you describe.
what are you doing for lunch tomorrow?
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