I, Porn Star(29)
I drop my stuff in one corner and turn around to find Angela staring at me. I’m not sure whether she’s assessing me for work purposes or her personal curiosity is getting the better of her.
“Your face, honey,” she eventually says. “Are you temporarily blotchy or am I dealing with something else?”
Heat surges into my face. I’d forgotten about my epic crying jag among the detritus of everything else I’m dealing with. I swipe self-consciously at my cheeks. “It’s temporary.”
“Great. That helps a lot. Okay, get your clothes off, slip into the white gown and hop on the bed. Have you had a Brazilian before?”
I shake my head as I toe off my boots.
“What about a bleach?”
“No.”
“Depending on your coloring down there, we may not need the bleach, but prepare yourself for the possibility.”
She heads to the prepping table and turns on a machine that looks like a fondue set without the tower. I get rid of my clothes, tug the gown over my head and stretch out on the massage table. She returns with a small bowl, which she sets down at the head of the bed. In the grand scheme of the huge obstacles I face, I’m mildly shocked to find myself nervous at the thought of having a patch of hair ripped off my pussy. But my nerves clearly filter through because she lays a hand on my knee.#p#分页标题#e#
“Relax, honey. The first time is a bitch, I won’t lie, but tensing up will make it worse. I’ll go as fast as I can.”
Laughter spills out before I can hold it in. Even to my ears, I sound a touch off my rocker. “I’m sorry. This is all a little…surreal.”
She nods as if she totally understands. Maybe she does. I wonder how often she does this for…the boss.
Q.
Did I really name him that? And what exactly had he meant by bravo?
My spinning thoughts refocus on the room and what’s being done to my private parts. I take a slow, deep breath and force my limbs to slacken.
Twenty minutes later, I’m a full member of the Brazilian club, shock and pain induced tears included.
Luckily, I pass the no-need-for-a-bleached-butthole test, much to my semi-hysterical relief. When Angela instructs me to, I get off the bed and hobble gingerly to the hair wash section of her domain.
The touch of firm fingers massaging heavenly smelling shampoo into my hair takes my mind off the stinging in my crotch. And thanks to the miraculous hypoallergenic mist she sprayed down there, by the time I’m seated in front of the mirror with my dinner of pasta fettuccini, garlic bread and slice of cheesecake in my lap, the pain is almost gone.
The blow dry warms me from the outside and the hot food releases the chill inside me. By the time I’m done with both, I feel a little more able to form thoughts that don’t start and end with abject hopelessness.
I need to find a place to stay tonight. That’s my first priority once I’m done here. Fionnella has a laptop, but asking for it would involve too many questions. I toss the problem around while Angela combs and trims my hair.
Deciding I have no choice but to return to Queens and take my chances with the homeless shelter, I look up as Angela fluffs my hair one last time.
“There. We’re done with your hair.”
I look into the mirror and my eyes widen. My hair has always held a natural wave, but Angela has emphasized the curls with a hot iron and teased the layers so the caramel and blonde swirl around each other in eye-catching waves. I no longer have split ends and whatever product she used has left a shiny, healthy head of hair styled back away from my face. Some the girls back at The Villa often attempted to replicate styles like these, but I’ve only ever seen perfection like this in a magazine.
My gaze lifts and catches hers in the mirror. “Thanks,” I murmur. I can’t summon more enthusiasm than that because, although I want to feel elated that my hair looks amazing, the purpose behind the makeover remains firmly locked in my mind.
The makeup session is even more dramatic than the hair, despite the subtle colors she uses. I barely recognize my own face by the time she finishes. I suddenly have noticeable cheekbones and my eyes are huge pools of deep green. I’m still staring at myself, stunned, when Fionnella walks in.
“Perfect, you’re right on time.” Her smile is back, although a touch strained at the edges. Angela excuses herself to tidy up and leaves Fionnella to judge her handiwork.
She makes pleased hums as she touches the curled ends of my hair.
“Come on, let’s get you fitted for the shoot.”
Her gaze follows me when I go to grab my stuff and when I return, she nods at my large backpack. “You look like you’re going somewhere. Is there a change of address we need to know about?”