Michael Michele (4)

“Adie! Darling, you’re here! How wonderful! And where is--oh, here she is. This must be your beautiful daughter. Oh dear…let’s get you to wardrobe, no?”

I stare at the woman incredulously. She looks so retarded! I had no idea people actually talked like that. In Incredibles the designer talked like that but at least she showed intelligence. This lady shows none. Everything she does, she does in a bit of a circular motion. She’s constantly tossing her hair, rolling her eyes, waving her hand significantly when she’s not saying much.

Maybe she’s not so bad. Maybe it’s just my lack of coffee and the way everyone is insulting my outfit. I don’t look runway-ready, but then again I didn’t know I was supposed to. And I don’t look bad.
~*~
She just had to take a before and after picture. And of course, she’s right. I made the mistake of muttering, “I don’t look all that gross.” To which she just looked at me with this amazed look on her face as if to say, “Poor thing. In so much denial.” Before any of the makeup artists or wardrobe engineers--the titles here crack me up--touched me, she snapped a Polaroid of me.

“I have no idea why people still use these primitive pieces of crap,” she said, waving her hand and tossing her hair, her eyes following her blond bangs. I glance over at Mom who is clearly biting her cheeks to keep from laughing. The woman has a totally warped mental image. She looks like an idiot but she acts as if she’s magnificent. In the wise words of Rhett Butler, “You…think you're the cutest trick in shoe leather.”

And I have to admit, my real self looks bad compared to my fully made-up self. And they haven’t even photoshopped me yet.

Willie, the female makeup artist who appears to be completely straight, worked on my face for a full hour. So I guess I must’ve been bad off. She completely transformed my face and now I’m really seeing the truth in Sara’s Alexis Bledel comment. Which I didn’t appreciate then, but do now.

Then Lilli and Nikki did my hair simultaneously. That took another two hours. My hair did look great when they were finished…silky and wavy and gorgeous. I’m still deciding whether it was worth the time.

Then came the fun part--the wardrobe. Unlike Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada…I do not have a woman picking out my clothes for me. I have an entire committee of perfect-looking “engineers” picking my clothes out for me. It sounds like the freaking Wall Street Journal in the room. Its hard to concentrate on the rows and racks of clothes in this room with all the engineers bickering and exclaiming and suggesting and trying to remember who is supposed to model what label and in what department. Mom is clearly soaking it up.

I watch her flitting around with the engineers smiling so often I’m sure wrinkles will form by tonight. Finally a redhead with platinum highlights that actually look stunning on her, struts toward me with clothes draped over her arms.

“Get to Dressing Room A. It’s that way. And find your mom. I’ve heard about thirty complaints already--someone needs to tell her she’s not the main event around here.”

I barely waste a smirk on her. “Thanks.” I know my mom can be as annoying as heck but it really ticks me off when someone else says so.

I sit in the huge, luxurious dressing room for a long time. I feel so--weird. With my new face and people making me up and searching for clothes for me. I should be in school now. Brie should be with me now, who knows what Mom’s done with her. Probably sold her to some famous model.

Snap out of it! I tell myself, standing up in front of the three-sided full-length mirror and frowning at my reflection. I look just like the rest of them. Slim with curves but not too curvy, perfect hair, perfect face. But I don’t want to look like them. Not naturally, and definitely not synthetically.

I need more coffee.

Someone knocks on my door. “This room’s taken,” I say, stepping into a pair of skintight designer jeans.

“It’s me.”

I sigh and open the door. Mom walks in looking decidedly less perky than before. I guess someone repeated the redhead’s message to her.

“What’s up?” I ask

“Hurry up, kid. I need you to meet Dave and you have a shoot in about an hour and you have a lot to learn. I’ll be in the salon.”

And she leaves, leaving Brie’s stroller with me. “Where’s the salon?”

She closes the door after her. I feel like throwing something. Why is she the one with the attitude when I’m the one who was forced to skip school to come to this useless, embarrassing event? Instead I slip on the bulky cashmere sweater and knee-high heeled boots over my jeans. I don’t even bother looking in the mirror before I wheel Brie out of the room. If I wasn’t wearing someone else’s clothes I’d just leave right now. Leaving Mom wherever she was to be ticked by herself and find her own way home.

My mood improves significantly when my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Macayla.

hey m
its j on m’s fone. wer r u? psycho preschool lady gav me a lecture thx a lot. lol jk. w/b
j

Is J who I think it is??