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That really is me.
She cocked her head to one side, locked on her image and for a brief second lamented the loss of painted-on teardrops, Elvira eyes, black lace and spikes, a façade certainly attributable to…
The makeup clinician pressed past her, drawing her from the depths of thought. She forced a smile, but her maniacal eyes once more found her reflection in the mirror.
Was my counselor right, I mean goth is beautiful but was I hiding from what I could not face, painting over and disguising…you?
She blinked.
Maybe so, but I still want a tear drop, that’s not hiding, that’s who I am.
She marched back to the chair and sat down. The artist rushed up in a tizzy, babbling in French.
“Makayla,” Donja said calmly. “Tell her I love it, but I want a black teardrop on the left side and my eyes lined a little darker.”
Makayla spoke in French and the artist rolled her eyes.
“Tell her to do it,” Donja said.
Makayla spoke to her again.
Dismayed, the artistic clinician shook her head, then snatched the black liner and painted a tiny teardrop on Donja’s cheek. She finished off the eyes and with a final glance to Donja’s image in the mirror, her demeanor shifted. She smiled as she rattled in French.
“Perfect.” Donja said as her lips curled up, “but what did she say?”
“She said she loves the look,” Makayla giggled as she gripped her clinician by the arm. “I want the same thing.”
They all laughed.
Later, back to Dirk who added a foam mousse to her hair then grabbed a brush and blow-dryer, Donja watched as he transformed her locks into undulating torrents of shimmering elegance. Finished, running his hands through her mane with an inarticulate chunter, he found a smile, spun the chair and took a bow. “Magnificent,” he mused a bit grandiose, as Donja rose to her feet, a new woman.
At the register, Makayla bought kits specially designed for each of them with makeup and hair products, the price tag for their three hours at Déjà vu—outrageous.
Speechless and totally lost in idyllic thought, Donja with her kit in hand followed Makayla down the busy sidewalks, past street vendors toward the Lexus.
“Well aren’t you going to say anything?” Makayla asked, stopping outside a sidewalk vendor displaying his wares.
“Oh, sorry,” Donja blurted, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Makayla responded, avoiding eye contact while thumbing through a colorful selection of summer tops, “but that’s not the answer I was hoping for.”
“Pardon?”
“What do you think of the new you?” Makayla asked with raised brows.
Donja exhaled with a huff. “I’m in shock, I mean, I could see myself in the mirror, but I wasn’t at all sure it was me.”
“It is you, and you’re stunning,” she said as they shared a look of intensity. “I hope you can see that.”
“Yes, well…I guess I do but I won’t lie, without the teardrop and thicker eye liner, it wasn’t me. Like I said…gothiglam. It’s beautiful, don’t you agree?”
“In all honesty, I didn’t think I’d like it but you’re right,” she said, “it’s lovely and seeing it combined into gothiglam, well…let’s just say you wear it well. You’re beautiful Donja.”
“Ditto,” Donja smiled, “it looks super on you.”
“Thanks, I’ve had my Prozac for the day,” Makayla laughed.
“And I have my shield,” Donja smiled rummaging through tops and jeans.
