Page 18 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
I take a good long look at her swollen face.
Please, God. Let her be better by then.
“The interview is worth fifty percent of the total score in the preliminaries. So today is crucial.” Ginny pours two cups of coffee. The dark liquid fills the Huntington Spa mugs all the way to the rim of each.
She hands me one and I frown into it. “I need cream and sugar.”
“Not anymore you don’t. From now on, liquid calories are a big no-no.”
“I can’t lose weight in one day. That’s impossible.”
She makes her way back to the bed and flops down next to her suitcase. “Care to bet on that?”
What does that even mean?
I’m not sure I want to know, so I take a giant gulp of black coffee. Predictably, it’s gross. “Fifty percent seems like a lot.”
“Because itis. I keep telling you that pageants are about more than just looks.” And yet, she’s pulling chunks of fake hair out of her baggage and holding them up for inspection.
“Was that suitcase a carry-on, or did you pay good money to check it?” I pull a face.
“They’re clip-on hair extensions, an absolute necessity.” She gestures at her own head of thick, strawberry-blond waves. “You didn’t think all of this was real, did you?”
I’m not that naive, so no. But I’m getting the feeling that the ratio of Ginny’s actual God-given hair to her clip-ons is drastically different than I thought it was.
“I’ve got enough here to get you by.” She narrows her gaze to my aforementioned ponytail. Her words are still slurred, but she’s got a determined glint in her eyes that’s starting to scare me. “Barely. But it’s going to take a while to clip them all in. And then we’ve got lashes to do. And makeup. And tanning. How could I forget that?”
Great. I’m going to look like a flaming-hot Cheeto in four, three, two...
“The interview is in eleven hours. Oh my God, we’re already running out of time.”
Seriously?
Eleven hours seems more than sufficient. I was actually hoping to catch a short nap somewhere in there. “But...”
Ginny stands, spins me around, and points me in the direction of the bathroom. “Get in the shower. Now.”
Before I can take a step, she yanks the ponytail holder from my head.Ouch!Then she gives me a weak push and I stumble toward the tub.
This makeover is clearly going to be much more intense than I anticipated.
At least I’ll have a few minutes of peace in the shower. After all, I know how to wash myself. I’ve been doing it all my life.
Or so I thought...
My now-caffeinated sister interrupts every five seconds. She peels back the shower curtain, barking instructions and blasting me with a shock of frigid air as she hands me various bottles and tubes of products. There’s special shampoo, conditioner, post conditioner, and some kind of hair oil, which I suppose could be considered post-post conditioner.
This seems like overkill, especially since my actual hair is going to be buried beneath a pile of mermaid-length extensions. But I know better than to argue.
Ginny is like a machine. Even while I’m standing beneath the spray of the showerhead, I can hear her whirling through the hotel room, talking to herself and throwing things around. It sounds like someone is getting pummeled in there.
I’m pretty sure it’s my dignity.
I’m just about to turn off the faucet and step out of the tub when the shower curtain flies open again.
I jump. “Would you stop? You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“Here.” She thrusts an elaborate pink handheld device at me.
