Page 31 of Eye of the Beholder
I hear Cohen muttering something, and then I hear the door to his room shut again.
Lydia shows me how to fill my brows in, having me do the right brow myself.
“Perfect,” she says, smiling, and I look at myself.
Eyebrows. I haveeyebrows. Eyebrows that show up. And as I look at myself, I realize that I look a lot more like my sisters than I did a minute ago; they must all have known about the eyebrow thing. It looks nice.
“Now,” Lydia says, interrupting my thoughts. “Here are your staples. Mascara”—she holds up a black tube of mascara—“eyeliner”—she holds up a brown pencil—“and eyeshadow.” As she holds up an eyeshadow palette, she says, “And honestly, you can skip the eyeshadow if you want. You can even skip the eyeliner, although it does add a lot. I’d use it when you can. And I’d recommend dark brown for you. Black might be a bit harsh.”
Having her do my eyeliner is even more uncomfortable than having her do my eyebrows. I feel like I’m being stabbed.
As if she can read my thoughts, Lydia says, “I know this isn’t pleasant. I promise it’s not as uncomfortable when you’re doing it yourself.”
I smile, slightly relieved. Because I can see the eye she’s already put liner on, and I like it.
“All right,” she says, holding up the tube of mascara with a flourish when she’s finished with the eyeliner. “Your magic wand. Here.” She hands it to me, and I unscrew the top a little nervously. I tried to put on mascara a few times when I was in sixth grade, but I just stabbed myself in the eye, and I never tried again.
I don’t stab myself this time. I coat my eyelashes and watch them appear, almost magically, where before it looked like I had none.
“They’re long,” I say, and Lydia nods.
“They are,” she says, grinning. “I’m sort of jealous. Okay, last thing—your hair.”
Right. My hair. My neon hair.
“The hair is easy,” Lydia says. “Do you own a curling iron or a straightener?” she says, and I shake my head.
“Now you do.” She plops them down in front of me.
“I can’t take these!” I say. “These are yours.”
“I can’t begin to tell you how many I have. It’s a problem. I’m not sad to part with them. Please, take them.”
I hesitate, looking at her, but she seems sincere. “Are you sure?” I say.
“Yes!” she says with a smile, rolling her eyes. “Now, if you’re like me, you don’t want to curl or straighten your hair every morning.”
“You are correct,” I say with a small smile.
“That’s where this comes in,” she says, setting a canister of dry shampoo in front of me. “Do you have dry shampoo?”
“Yeah, I do,” I say.
“Great. Use it. If you want to leave your hair down—which you should definitely do at least sometimes, because look at thatcolor—then curl it or straighten it the night before. When you get up, spray in some shampoo if it needs it, and you’re good to go. If you want to do a ponytail or a bun, that’s fine,but”—she holds up her hand—“it needs some volume or some texture on the top and the sides. Don’t just slick it back tight to your head. That doesn’t look good on anyone. It’s nothing to do with you, I promise. It just isn’t a good look for anyone.”
I smile reluctantly. “Understood.”
“For our purposes right now, do you want it straight or curled?” she says, cocking her head to the side. “It’s pretty thick. Does it hold a curl?”
I shrug. “Probably. My sisters all curl their hair just fine.”
She nods. “Let’s curl it, then. Not a lot; just some loose curls. Shirley Temple isn’t what we’re going for, and we don’t have time for that, anyway.”
She chatters away as she curls my hair with a curling wand, and I find myself smiling and laughing. She’s funny, and she has a way of putting me at ease. Fifteen minutes later, she steps back.
“Done,” she says. “It’s subtle, but I like it.”
I stand, wiggling my legs a little bit because I’ve been sitting for a while now. Then I look in the mirror, taking myself in. I almost can’t believe it.
