Almaty Etude 2

“Urgh…So ugly…” I stand reflecting in the mirror of women’s restroom. Quite a pathetic-looking girl stares back at me: white-faced as if embalmed for display at a mausoleum, with blood-shot eyes that glister and water as those of fever-stricken. Smudged make-up finishes off the “impressive” image - never in my life did I like what I saw in the mirror and never did I cease attempting to do something about my catastrophically abysmal appearance.

Like at the moment I’m cleaning up the mess under my eyes with a piece of a dampened toilet paper. It is hard after sitting in front of the computer for 12 hours straight; my eyes hate me and refuse to focus on anything. I can’t bring myself to hating them back, I’m just too tired.

Translating sucks (Pardon my French), but my brain at the moment is nothing more but a piece of bubblegum – all chewed up and vapid.

Out of sheer exhaustion I lean onto the sink with my both arms (screw germs) and just stare blindly at the white porcelain creased by many black hairs that got caught on its sides. I’m too hypnotized to realize that I’m no longer alone. Another girl is checking her looks in the falsehood of the damn mirror. I regain an honourable posture and pretend to do the same, secretly cursing the damsel for turning up in such a bad timing.

Meanwhile the girl puts down her handbag – I turn away to allow myself the luxury of a scornful smile – can THIS be called a student’s bag? One wouldn’t have fitted in it a pack of cigarettes in it, leave alone the books. However, miraculously the 21-century Marry Poppins extracts an imposing number of various artifacts from within. I’m so impressed – now that the once-boring toilet table is an exciting exhibition of a girl’s must-have armour: two shades of lipstick, eyeliner, some MaxFactor mascara, some gruesome foundation, powder, glitter (can’t tell whether it is for lips or for eyelids, as I’m no cosmetics expert), a hairbrush, an acidly blood red bottle of nail varnish, an elegant perfume container, some dangerously gleaming object that looks a lot like tweezers, another steely state-of-the-art unidentifiable thingy, a heart-shaped hair clip, some rings… Damn that must be heavy to carry around!

The beauty maniac wrinkles her pretty forehead – could she be wondering what to start from? Ok the charcoal black eyeliner goes first, and then a bit of mascara – her cerise mouth opens up slightly as she brushes her eyelashes – piling up more and more… Ah, euphoria of a delicate mascara maestro shines in her eyes as she blinks several times to test the newly-put attire.

Then lips… with a juicy pop she spreads ripened cherry lipstick. So zesty! Then glitter – it was the eyelids one if you care…Then some powder puffs, then …ewww…. that scary-looking object is actually for curling up your eyelashes.

Oh, dear… It seems I’ve been brushing my hair for eternity here – but the princess is still far from getting her hairdo done.

Another girl enters. Nothing exciting – she just came to make sure that her tight-jeansed hips were still there – guys haven’t incinerated them (What a shame) with their igneous looks and so she left quite self-satisfied.

I have little to do, but I so much don’t want to go back to this spawn of hell, this computer. And so I stay - stealing looks at the precious one – she is now talking on her cell phone and arranging her hair into a haute couture mess. Wow – doing two things at the same time – just like Julius Caesar used to…

Suddenly a bunch of giggling creatures bustles in – and the ringing notes of the girl’s tirade drown in the sea of swishing frill skirts, click-clack of the high heels and remarks such as “Fuck, my bra keeps sliding off…”; “Did you see his face”; “Oh is that your new shirt, the Gucci one?”

More kisses with lipstick, and giggles, and hustle-bustle, and tipsy-turvy, and they leave…

I feel quite good about myself – I had just perfectly arranged and rearranged the utter pandemonium within the viscera of my bag in the hundredth time – but our petite mademoiselle is still here. She has just started that ritual dance women perform when tête-à-tête with any reflecting surface (be that a mirror, a shop window or the shiny car sides). It goes like 1, 2, 3 – turn; 1, 2 – swirl; 1,2 steps back, to the side and all over again from the very start. The whole purpose of this sacrament is to figure out whether your butt looks better from a 930 or 1880 angle…

The door’s handle screeches and … BEHOLD! A men’s shoe steps onto the floor of this sacred harem. Ms. Beauty Pageant shrieks as if she had been caught in the morning – naked without her makeup and in her worst negligee. Deafened the poor guy hastily slams the door. He must’ve mistaken, it happens sometimes when nature’s call becomes intolerable.

The girl ablaze from this outburst of emotion puts away her profound library of beauty back into her purse. She then puts on her coat and starts arranging her glittering pink scarf – just some 10 minutes more and she will be all ready – ready to embrace the evening gloaming of Almaty, sprinkled casually with neon streetlamps and distorted car signals.

I’m again alone – alone with the mirror and my inextinguishable thirst to smash it to smithereens. I think better of it – next time may be…. I hastily put on my winter jacket. I’m not going back to that room full of humming Intel processors and mouse squeaks.

After all I hate translating technical brochures.