Page 30 of Eye of the Beholder
But I see where she’s going with it, so I nod. “If you think so,” I say.
“I do,” she says, her voice firm. “No more about your eyes to me. They’re exotic and beautiful.”
Huh. She sounds like she genuinely means it. I can’t help it; I smile slightly. “All right. Where do we start?”
Her smile grows even happier. “We start with your shirt. From here on out, you wear t-shirts like this”—she tugs on my sleeve—“only for sleeping and manual labor. Are you okay with that?”
To my surprise, I find that I am. “That’s fine with me.”
“Good,” Lydia says. “I’d recommend getting rid of most of them. That way you’re not tempted.” She goes to her closet and pulls the doors open, revealing a wardrobe organized by color.
I can’t help it; I smile. I sort of love that.
“Let’s see,” she says, taking a step back and considering her clothes. “I have a blue one that would look good on you—”
“Oh, I brought my own shirt with me,” I say when I realize what she’s doing. I pull it out of my bag, and then I put my bag on her neatly made bed so I don’t have to keep carrying it. I hold up the shirt to show her. It’s a sort of purplish-blueish color with tiny pink flowers.
“Cute! But you have a different shirt and you’re still wearing that one?” she says, gesturing at the t-shirt I have on. She shakes her head, smiling at me. “Well, get it off. I’ll turn around,” she says.
When I have my new shirt on, Lydia leads me to the chairs she has set up in front of her mirrored vanity. “You sit here,” she says, pointing to one, “and I’ll sit here.” She points to the other.
I sit…and the whirlwind begins.
I have never heard anyone talk about makeup the way Lydia talks about it. She talks about it like she’s an artist and it’s her preferred medium. She knows the ins and outs of what every brush does, of where everything goes—I only grasp maybe half of what she’s saying. Sheshouldbe a beautician.
“I’m not a makeup person,” I say to her before we get too far in—she’s just primed my face, whatever that means. “Realistically, I will do a minimal amount of makeup. I can’t promise more than that.”
Lydia waves her hand dismissively. “You do however much you want. But if you have to pick and choose, always choose mascara. Always. It is your best friend. As is…” she says, trailing off as she scans the mess of products in front of us. “This,” she says, her voice triumphant. “Let’s go ahead and fill in your brows so you can see what they look like. We’ll do your eyes in a minute.”
I gesture to my glasses, folded neatly in my lap. “I’ve tried contacts. They irritate my eyes.”
With another wave of her hand, Lydia says, “Your glasses are cute. Don’t worry about that.”
It’s an odd sensation to have someone doing my makeup; Lydia’s face, full of concentration, is so close to mine that I’m afraid to breathe, just in case I have bad breath. I feel her using a little brush on my eyebrows, and a second later, she leans back.
“Okay. Do you want me to pluck them, or do you want to leave them as is?”
Huh. I didn’t think about that.
“Here,” she says, moving out of my way. “Look at them and see what you think.”
I stand and lean closer to the mirror until I can see my eyebrows. They’re maybe not perfect, but they don’t look too bad, do they? They don’t need to beperfect.
“How much would you do?” I say, looking at her.
She shrugs. “Not much. They don’t need reshaping. I would just clean up the edges, really.”
I shrug too, sitting down. “Then let’s skip it.”
She nods. “Sounds good. They’re so light anyway; just don’t fill in what you don’t want to show up.” She holds up a little silver box. “Speaking of which. This is your eyebrow powder. It’s just a shade or two darker than your hair; just dark enough to be visible. You don’t want to go too dark.”
Just then there’s a knock at the door, and Cohen’s voice comes from outside. “Mina?”
“That was fast,” Lydia says to me.
“It was an abbreviated version of the test,” I explain.
“Go away,” Lydia says over her shoulder. “We’re busy.”
