“What kind of look are we going for?”
Some makeup artists dive in, trying to cram as many clients as possible into a day. I take the extra time I’ve built into my schedule to ask a few questions. Just because one woman wants a smokey eye and a naked mouth doesn’t mean another isn’t envisioning a bold red lip and only a swipe of mascara. Investing in those early minutes saves me time on the back end.
But I also trust my instincts and observations. When these girls say they want a sexy, beachy look, I know they really want to resemble Gigi Hadid, who is on the cover of the magazine splayed across the love seat.
“So what are you majoring in?” I ask.
“Communications. We both want to go into PR.” Mandy sounds bored, like I’m an annoying adult asking her what she wants to be when she grows up.
“Sounds interesting,” I say as I pull a straight-back chair into the strongest light, directly under the ceiling fixture.
I start with Taylor. I have forty-five minutes to create the vision she wants to see in the mirror.
“You have amazing skin,” I say. Another rule: Find a feature to compliment on every client. In Taylor’s case, this isn’t difficult.
“Thanks,” she says, not lifting her gaze from her phone. She begins a running commentary on her Instagram feed: “Does anyone really want to see another picture of cupcakes?” “Jules and Brian are so in love, it’s gross.” “Inspirational sunset, got it . . . glad you’re having a rocking Friday night on your balcony.”
As I work, the girls’ chatter fades into background noise, like the drone of a hair dryer or city traffic. I lose myself in the strokes of different foundations I’ve applied to Taylor’s jawline so I can match her skin tone flawlessly, and in the swirl of copper and sandy hues I blend on my hand to bring out the gold flecks in her eyes.
I’m brushing bronzer onto her cheeks when her cell phone rings.
Taylor stops tapping hearts and holds up her phone: “Private number. Should I get it?”
“Yes!” Mandy says. “It could be Justin.”
Taylor wrinkles her nose. “Who answers their phone on a Friday night, though? He can leave a message.”
A few moments later, she touches the speakerphone button and a man’s voice fills the room:
“This is Ben Quick, Dr. Shields’s assistant. I’m confirming your appointments this weekend, for tomorrow and Sunday from eight to ten A.M. The location again is Hunter Hall, Room 214. I’ll meet you in the lobby and take you up.”
Taylor rolls her eyes and I pull back my mascara wand.
“Can you keep your face still, please?” I ask.
“Sorry. Was I out of my mind, Mandy? I’m going to be way too hungover to get up early tomorrow.”
“Just blow it of.”
“Yeah. But it’s five hundred bucks. That’s, like, a couple sweaters from rag & bone.”
These words break my concentration; five hundred is what I make for ten jobs.
“Gah. Forget it. I’m not going to set an alarm to go to some dumb questionnaire,” Taylor says.
Must be nice, I think, looking at the sweater crumpled in the corner.
Then I can’t help myself: “A questionnaire?”
Taylor shrugs. “Some psych professor needs students for a survey.”
I wonder what sort of questions are on the survey. Maybe it’s like a Myers-Briggs personality test.
I step back and study Taylor’s face. She’s classically pretty, with an enviable bone structure. She didn’t need the full forty-five-minute treatment.
“Since you’re going to be out late, I’ll line your lips before I apply gloss,” I say. “That way the color will last.”
I pull out my favorite lip gloss with the BeautyBuzz logo on the tube and smooth it along Taylor’s full lips. After I finish, Taylor gets up to go look in the bathroom mirror, trailed by Mandy. “Wow,” I hear Taylor say. “She’s really good. Let’s take a selfie.”
“I need my makeup first!”
I begin to put away the cosmetics I used for Taylor and consider what I will need for Mandy when I notice Taylor has left her phone on the chair.
My rocking Friday night will consist of walking my little mixed terrier, Leo, and washing the makeup out of my brushes—after I take the bus across town to my tiny studio on the Lower East Side. I’m so wiped out that I’ll probably be in bed before Taylor and Mandy order their first cocktails at the club.
I look down at the phone again.
Then I glance at the bathroom door. It’s partly closed.
I bet Taylor won’t even bother to return the call to cancel her appointment.
“I need to buy the highlighter she used,” Taylor is saying.
Five hundred dollars would help a lot with my rent this month.
I already know my schedule for tomorrow. My first job doesn’t begin until noon.
“I’m going to have her do my eyes kind of dramatic,” Mandy says. “I wonder if she has false lashes with her.”
Hunter Hall from eight to ten A.M.—I remember that part. But what was the name of the doctor and his assistant?
It’s not even like I make a decision to do it; one second I’m staring at the phone and the next, it’s in my hand. Less than a minute has passed; it hasn’t locked out yet. Still, I need to look down to navigate to the voice mail screen, but that means taking my eyes of the bathroom door.
I jab at the screen to play the most recent message, then press the phone tightly to my ear.
The bathroom door moves and Mandy starts to walk out. I spin around, feeling my heartbeat erupt. I won’t be able to replace the phone without her seeing me.
Ben Quick.
I can pretend it fell of the chair, I think wildly. I’ll tell Taylor I just picked it up.
“Wait, Mand!”
Dr. Shields’s assistant . . . eight to ten A.M. . . .
“Should I make her try a darker lip color?”
Come on, I think, willing the message to play faster.
Hunter Hall, Room 214.
“Maybe,” Mandy says.
I’ll meet you in the lob—
I hang up and drop the phone back onto the chair just as Taylor takes her first step into the room.
Did she leave it faceup or facedown? But before there’s time to try and remember, Taylor is beside me.
She stares down at her phone and my stomach clenches. I’ve messed up. Now I recall that she left it with the screen facing down on the chair. I put it back the wrong way.
I swallow hard, trying to think of an excuse.
“Hey,” she says.
I drag my eyes up to meet hers.
“Love it. But can you try a darker lip gloss?”
She flops back onto the chair and I slowly exhale.
I redo her lips twice—first making them berry, then reverting to the original shade, all the while steadying my right elbow with my left palm so my shaking fingers don’t ruin the lines—and by the time I’m finished, my pulse has returned to normal.
When I leave the apartment with a distracted “Thank you” from the girls instead of a tip, my decision is confirmed.
I set the alarm on my phone for 7:15 A.M.
Saturday, November 17
The next morning, I review my plan carefully.
Sometimes an impulsive decision can change the course of your life.