Status: A little drabble I wrote now that I can relax!
Beautiful, Clean, Perfect, Happy.
One
Tiny, foundation coated hands gripped the edges of her white wood dresser, fingers holding so tightly the knuckles were almost the same color as the table. The surface was covered entirely in cosmetics; tubes of lipstick lying open and broken amongst the powdery residue of destroyed eye shadow palettes, blush containers, and face brighteners. She was staring, transfixed, into the mirror hung above the dresser, a smile she’d taken hours gluing on with concealer and every lipstick she could find glowing brightly back at her.
The girl’s whole face looked like it had been drawn onto her head with oil pastels; layers and layers of concealer, foundation, and powder hiding every blemish she thought she had and making her seem many shades paler than she actually was, aside from the dark brown color she’d used to contour her nearly skeletal cheekbones with. Her eyelids were painted with all the colors in all the palettes she had in the drawers, thick eyeliner rimming the girl’s tired eyes. Her eyes wildly flickered across the pictures she’d torn out of fashion magazines and taped meticulously to the mirror. Old Hollywood glamour shots and runway models and all her favorite actresses looked back, judging her and her inferiority.
She tried desperately to dry her rolling tears without touching her face and messing up her masterpiece. She worked so hard to make herself look as beautiful as all of them, but somehow she always fell short. “I’m beautiful, clean, perfect, and happy. Beautiful, clean, perfect, happy, beautiful, clean, perfect . . .” she chanted, picking up her eyebrow pencil and giving them another layer of color. But she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t perfect, either, and perfection was the only way to happiness. It had to be; that’s what all the magazines said. Lose weight and you will be happy, control your acne and you hold the key to loving yourself. She wished that she could love herself. Maybe if she gave her lips another coat of gloss she would learn how.
The girl’s whole face looked like it had been drawn onto her head with oil pastels; layers and layers of concealer, foundation, and powder hiding every blemish she thought she had and making her seem many shades paler than she actually was, aside from the dark brown color she’d used to contour her nearly skeletal cheekbones with. Her eyelids were painted with all the colors in all the palettes she had in the drawers, thick eyeliner rimming the girl’s tired eyes. Her eyes wildly flickered across the pictures she’d torn out of fashion magazines and taped meticulously to the mirror. Old Hollywood glamour shots and runway models and all her favorite actresses looked back, judging her and her inferiority.
She tried desperately to dry her rolling tears without touching her face and messing up her masterpiece. She worked so hard to make herself look as beautiful as all of them, but somehow she always fell short. “I’m beautiful, clean, perfect, and happy. Beautiful, clean, perfect, happy, beautiful, clean, perfect . . .” she chanted, picking up her eyebrow pencil and giving them another layer of color. But she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t perfect, either, and perfection was the only way to happiness. It had to be; that’s what all the magazines said. Lose weight and you will be happy, control your acne and you hold the key to loving yourself. She wished that she could love herself. Maybe if she gave her lips another coat of gloss she would learn how.