talk about a heart-shaped face. You’re a regular chip off the Reese Witherspoon block.”
He puts a heavily be-ringed hand on each of my shoulders.
“I’m thinking some cocoa-colored liner to play up those huge blue eyes. And, obviously, we’ll need to spray tan. But nothing too Oompa-Loompa. And those eyebrows—honey, are they some kind of homage to Brooke Shields? They have got to go!”
Gently, he loosens my ponytail. My hair tumbles over my shoulders, happy to be free from its elastic hair-cuffs for once. It’s weird seeing it frame my face—it makes me look older. More serious.
“Tell me, Nora, how do you feel about blond?”
I swallow. My hair’s always been dark chestnut. My dad used to tell me how much it looked like my mom’s when she was younger, and I felt like it was some sort of link to her.
Bryce is watching my face and he can see my apprehension.
“Okay, maybe that’s a little extreme. How about some nice highlights then—some honey strands, a kiss of sun here and there?”
He starts pulling sections up and away from my face. I think about how much I want to win this thing. As the saying goes, image is everything. I take a deep breath.
“Sure. Highlights are great. Let’s go for it.”
“Fab!”
Bryce looks thrilled and, seeing his excitement, I start feeling a little thrilled, too.
But my smile falters a bit as a burly woman with spiky hair and multiple facial piercings approaches holding a bowl and brush. I’m sure she’s great , I tell myself. Just because she obviously enjoys pain doesn’t mean she wants to inflict it on me.
As Spike not-so-gently divides and conquers my unruly hair, I watch the chaos swirl around me. I recognize most of the nearby girls from the contestant profiles. I try to match names with faces, to remember what I’d read about them.
There’s a beautiful black girl named Coral with huge dark eyes and cropped hair. She’s quiet despite her surroundings, reading a book whose title I can’t see. I remember that she’s the one who got an early acceptance to Harvard, but deferred it to compete here. Talk about intimidating.
To her left are two blond girls, Abby and Amy, practically carbon-copy cutouts of each other. They’re gossiping back and forth while two makeup artists struggle to apply lipstick and eyeliner to their moving faces. I remember one of them was sitting on Christian’s lap at lunch. A lurch of nausea flies through me.
There’s Kelsey, who speaks five languages; Emily, whose parents died in an earthquake; and Jennifer, who lost her hearing when she was five. It occurs to me that everyone has a story that can be condensed down to a caption, a blurb, and that’s all I know about them. I can’t help but wonder how different each of them is from the short paragraph I’ve read. If they’re judging me by mine, they think I’m the “daughter of a successful barbecue entrepreneur who’s won many notable culinary awards.”
I’ve gotta say, I’m not sure how notable it is to win First Place for Pig Butt Texture in Doody’s Regional Pork-Off.
“Looking good, looking good.” Bryce comes over to the dryer I’m planted under and checks the progress of my highlights.
“We’ll rinse these in just a minute. But first …”
He reaches over and picks up a small pot of honey-colored wax. I’ve been dreading this the most. Joanie helped me wax my eyebrows once before and they were red and swollen for a day and a half. But, in the world of television, I guess it’s better to look like a burn victim than Bert from Sesame Street .
When I look in the mirror an hour later, I have to admit that the transformation’s pretty amazing. I turn my head from side to side to examine the effect of the subtle caramel-colored highlights. It really does look like I’ve been out in the sun for a few days. The spray tan booth wasn’t exactly the most comfortable ten minutes of my life and I think I’m a little too orange, but Bryce assured me
He puts a heavily be-ringed hand on each of my shoulders.
“I’m thinking some cocoa-colored liner to play up those huge blue eyes. And, obviously, we’ll need to spray tan. But nothing too Oompa-Loompa. And those eyebrows—honey, are they some kind of homage to Brooke Shields? They have got to go!”
Gently, he loosens my ponytail. My hair tumbles over my shoulders, happy to be free from its elastic hair-cuffs for once. It’s weird seeing it frame my face—it makes me look older. More serious.
“Tell me, Nora, how do you feel about blond?”
I swallow. My hair’s always been dark chestnut. My dad used to tell me how much it looked like my mom’s when she was younger, and I felt like it was some sort of link to her.
Bryce is watching my face and he can see my apprehension.
“Okay, maybe that’s a little extreme. How about some nice highlights then—some honey strands, a kiss of sun here and there?”
He starts pulling sections up and away from my face. I think about how much I want to win this thing. As the saying goes, image is everything. I take a deep breath.
“Sure. Highlights are great. Let’s go for it.”
“Fab!”
Bryce looks thrilled and, seeing his excitement, I start feeling a little thrilled, too.
But my smile falters a bit as a burly woman with spiky hair and multiple facial piercings approaches holding a bowl and brush. I’m sure she’s great , I tell myself. Just because she obviously enjoys pain doesn’t mean she wants to inflict it on me.
As Spike not-so-gently divides and conquers my unruly hair, I watch the chaos swirl around me. I recognize most of the nearby girls from the contestant profiles. I try to match names with faces, to remember what I’d read about them.
There’s a beautiful black girl named Coral with huge dark eyes and cropped hair. She’s quiet despite her surroundings, reading a book whose title I can’t see. I remember that she’s the one who got an early acceptance to Harvard, but deferred it to compete here. Talk about intimidating.
To her left are two blond girls, Abby and Amy, practically carbon-copy cutouts of each other. They’re gossiping back and forth while two makeup artists struggle to apply lipstick and eyeliner to their moving faces. I remember one of them was sitting on Christian’s lap at lunch. A lurch of nausea flies through me.
There’s Kelsey, who speaks five languages; Emily, whose parents died in an earthquake; and Jennifer, who lost her hearing when she was five. It occurs to me that everyone has a story that can be condensed down to a caption, a blurb, and that’s all I know about them. I can’t help but wonder how different each of them is from the short paragraph I’ve read. If they’re judging me by mine, they think I’m the “daughter of a successful barbecue entrepreneur who’s won many notable culinary awards.”
I’ve gotta say, I’m not sure how notable it is to win First Place for Pig Butt Texture in Doody’s Regional Pork-Off.
“Looking good, looking good.” Bryce comes over to the dryer I’m planted under and checks the progress of my highlights.
“We’ll rinse these in just a minute. But first …”
He reaches over and picks up a small pot of honey-colored wax. I’ve been dreading this the most. Joanie helped me wax my eyebrows once before and they were red and swollen for a day and a half. But, in the world of television, I guess it’s better to look like a burn victim than Bert from Sesame Street .
When I look in the mirror an hour later, I have to admit that the transformation’s pretty amazing. I turn my head from side to side to examine the effect of the subtle caramel-colored highlights. It really does look like I’ve been out in the sun for a few days. The spray tan booth wasn’t exactly the most comfortable ten minutes of my life and I think I’m a little too orange, but Bryce assured me
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