After a final few dabs of powder, she grabs a mirror off the table and holds it up in front ofme.
“It is done. It is natural,yes?”
I stare at my reflection and have to admit that this woman knows her stuff. I hardly seem like I’m wearing makeup at all, but she’s made me look better than I would have been able to with a full cat eye and stoplight red lips. My skin is practically glowing, and she’s done some sort of contouring magic that puts my cheekbones onpoint.
“Uh, yes. Very natural,” I answer, hoping the response won’t gain me another brush to the eye. “You did a really goodjob.”
I can’t tear my eyes away. I reach up a hand to touch my cheek and before I know it, my arm is being slapped away from myface.
“NO TOUCHING! You put on bathing suit now, then we do bodymakeup.”
She uses her brush to point out a bundle of fabric on the edge of the table. I hop up and grab it, discovering a cotton robe and an emerald green twopiece.
“Where do Ichange?”
She just shrugs and starts rearranging some eye shadow palettes. “Incorner.”
I hesitate for a moment and consider asking to use the bathroom instead, but figure I might as well just get things over with. Makeup lady keeps fawning over her collection, her back to me, and I pull off my blouse and pencil skirt before shimmying into the bathingsuit.
Even without a mirror to look in, I can tell the two piece suits me. The top half is a halter with a latticework back, and the bottom has matching cut-out sections on the sides. The deep green colour goes well with my perpetually sun-kissed Portuguese skin. Looking down at myself, I feel a little better about the impending photoshoot.
“I’m, uh, done now,” I announce, setting my clothes down in a pile on thechair.
Makeup lady spins around and her eyes lightup.
“Ah, good!” She walks over and looks me up and down. “We do not need to give you zhee stomach muscles. You are strong likebull!”
Okay, she has to beRussian.
“And this”—she points to the halter— “means we do not have to contour zheeboobs.”
I feel myself shaking as I try to hold in the need to laugh uncontrollably after hearing the phrase ‘zheeboobs.’
She circles around me, tugging at the bathing suit a bit and making ‘Mhmm’sounds.
“Skin is good. We do not need to fix it,” she announces, once the inspection is complete. “You maygo.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I didn’t catch yourname?”
“I am Yulia Francuzova. Here is mycard.”
She reaches into her tool belt and pulls out a business card, and when I look down at it I have to hold back another burst oflaughter.
The background is an image of turquoise glitter. In the wavy blue bubble letter Word Art I remember using for elementary school projects, it says ‘Yulia Francuzova,’ and underneath, in Comic Sans, ‘The Makeup. TheArt.’
“Thanks,” I manage tosay.
I stuff the card into my pile of clothing and pull on the cotton robe before heading out into thestudio.
