Page 15 of Dear Pink

I ignore the insult and eye the chair longingly. “Okay, but not too much makeup. I don’t wear a lot.”

“No problem. I’m happy to share our newest line. We have lots of subtle colors to work with your light skin tone. We have the pink line, the cream-colored peach, the yellow-based peach, the peach with a tint of red, and there’s the baby pink peach.”

“Um . . .” I’m so tired. I shut my eyes for a minute.

“I’ll choose for you,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

I’m too weary to care. “Not too much color,” I repeat.

“Of course not,” he says. “Let’s emphasize those gorgeous gray eyes with accents.”

In seconds, he’s inches away from my face, moving his brush in a million different directions. He squeezes a huge blob of foundation onto his makeup palette, and I cringe. “Not too much. I don’t wear foundation.”

“But your blotchiness?”

“My blotchiness? I don’t have blotches on my face.”

He ignores me and pokes my cheek with his finger.

“And a little cream blush.”

“Cream blush? They still make that?”

He paints my face like a maniac artist. His feather-light touch moves in quick flashes, concealing his tools and color choices. His body blocks my view of the mirror.

“Now the eyes. Bold colors will accent these big beautiful eyes.”

“Bold? You mean, natural? No bold colors.”

He doesn’t respond.

“And a bit of highlighting here and over there.” He talks to himself while I sit limply, an imprisoned rag doll. He changes brushes six times before dipping his brush in a blue compact.

“Blue eyeshadow?” The bright blue sobers me, and I sit up. “Are you sure?”

“Blue is the next brown,” he says, going to town on my eyelids.

Huh? Blue is rarely a sane makeup choice. A woman walks past and does a double-take, her mouth ajar. I plead with my eyes for help, but she walks away.

“Let’s finish with lip liner. Darling, you must define these full lips. They’re too luscious to be ignored.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble, a giant brush pressed against my mouth.

“A dash of Lipglass here in the middle will make them appear moist.”

I cringe at his use of the wordmoist. Gross.

“Done.” He drops his makeup utensils dramatically. “Shall I wrap the color pallets for you?”

“Um. May I see my face?”

“Silly me.” He moves out of the way, and a deranged clown stares back at me. “Voila.”

Someone puked a box of Crayons on my face. I have no words. I want to punch him.

“It’s makeup perfection, isn’t it?”

“I . . . uhh. I—”

---