There she is, looking back. Appearing naked, dishevelled, raw.
This skin, not yet sunkissed. Curving down her neck, over collar bones. Yet taut, admittedly. Soft and clean. Moisturizer, foundation, concealer and a fight with the shade above her cheeks. Pale skin and sunblock infused bronzer. She runs fingers beneath her chin, attempting a seamless meld.
Those cheeks. Full and prompt to redden with reason. A brush on the apples. Blending up and out. Midnight Rose, today.
These lips. Capable of forming words to any end. Needing to be kissed. Bitten, pursed, twisted, smiling. Twelve colours to consider. Lined and dabbed. "Barely Nude". Subtle, or so they say. Stashing the tube in her handbag for emergencies. A glass of wine, maybe, or absentmindedly licking her lips.
And eyes. Looking so dull, now, on this face. The soft gray of pussywillows. Contacts already in. Framed by brows she shapes and colours. She's been told her eyes convey intelligence. Now she will line them, shadow them, paint the lashes black. They will stand out. An artist and her canvas.
Finally genuine. Ready to face the street. No hint of last night's late discussion, or the teenage scar on her brow. Smiling, Crest has taken care of party cigarettes and morning coffee. Framed by hair carefully sprayed to fall in place. Straightened to deal with dangerous waves. Highlighted to look natural.
She's made herself beautiful.