MAKE ME UP

SECOND IMPRESSIONS

I didn’t think I would see Lincoln Huxley again, not after I channeled my inner Germaine Greer, and let my frustration out on him. Therefore, you can imagine my shock when Lincoln opts to sit in my seat this morning. He picks up the newspapers and scoffs at the headlines: the same stories, different stars.

“They make up a load of old rubbish every day”. He comments before throwing the tabloids on the floor.

Shrugging at the hardships of fame, I nod to appease him, but don’t comment further.

I prepare his skin with my primer, and begin to evenly apply the foundation. He watches me, with a small curve in his lip, as if he is desperate to laugh at my obvious awkwardness, so naturally, I pull the crease he is making in his cheek straight to ensure that the make-up doesn’t become trapped in his crevice.

“Your make-up is wonderful, it was so easy to take off last night, and I didn’t need any touch-ups throughout the day, not that I would have let them replace your make-up with their own”. He admitted, and I blushed at praise. “You should be selling your products, you could really be successful with it. All the actors complain about the heaviness of their make-up. This is probably what a lot of people are looking for”. He adds.

There it was, the validation that I had always wanted, from a person who was still a complete stranger to me.

“That was the dream, to create my own brand, and sell my products. A business advisor told me that my plan wasn’t viable, and I didn’t manufacture any more of my products after that. It seemed pointless.” I share with him.

“The day your samples run out, and you don’t decide to make more, a genuine crime will have been committed. The death of talent. There are many other business advisors”. He concludes.

Tim was the advisor, and I can’t help but feel embarrassed that I let him convince me that my ideas were not worth taking a chance on.

Humble pie was always a bitter dish for me to swallow. Last week, I redirected my anger at Lincoln. I didn’t even ask the photographer why he so readily acquiesced to what was asked of him by a man, but he argued so adamantly with a woman.

“I’m sorry about…” I begin.

“No, don’t, you were right. I thought about what you said a lot, and I should have handled it differently. You don’t need a hero, but I’d really like it if I could make a better second impression, and we could be friends?” Lincoln says, sheepishly.

“I’d like that as well!” I reply, far too animatedly.

Why I answered that way, I have no idea. Maybe because it was true? I had no illusions that a friendship could be maintained between a movie star and a make-up artist. I wonder if this is how a fisherman feels when he casts off, only to find his line caught in a tree. I can’t reel my words back in, so I focus on the job in hand instead.

While I am finishing the final touches, he tells me how pleased his mother was with his interview yesterday. The stories they write about him have little impact on him anymore, but his family are obviously upset that his reputation is being shredded by the media.

“Are you doing another interview today?” I ask, curiously.

Knowing he was only supposed to be in the studio yesterday, I was confused by his sudden appearance.

“Actually, I am meeting a director here to audition for a leading role. I really hope I get it. It feels important to me, for me, I guess, and I’m in need of a change. It’s really hush, hush, so we thought this venue would put off the paparazzi”.

I zip my lips together, showing that his secret is safe with me. He glances in the mirror, giving a quick nod of approval before making his way out of the seat.

My day is incredibly busy, and at one point there’s a queue outside the make-up room. Annoyingly, I’m managing to prepare two people for every one that my colleagues manage to get through. By lunchtime, the sweat is dripping down my T-shirt, and even the crocs can’t stop the throbbing in my feet. A few of the celebrities pick up my business cards, and ask if I do make-up parties for teenagers, or make-up for big nights out. My answer is always yes. I need the money, so if they ask me to give Big Ben a makeover, I’d be picking up my step-ladder and giving it my best. Unfortunately, the inevitable obstacle continues to present itself, when they ask if they can add me on social media, and I have to explain that I don’t have a social media footprint. Not anymore.

Deciding against having my lunch in the ‘welcoming’ canteen, I head out to my car needing to get out of the studio for a bit. Despite putting my head down in an effort to ignore everyone, I’m stopped by the site manager, who still hasn’t introduced himself, but is wearing a name badge today, so I can now deduce he wants to be called Mike.

“Quick word!” He calls out, and it is a universal truth, despite what Jane Austen would say, that this is the prerequisite phrase for a conversation that is going to take far longer than it needs to.

“Sure” I answer with mock enthusiasm.

“Your business cards can’t be handed out at work. You need to focus only on your current job, and the other make-up artists find it distracting, it’s slowing them down. If you could just put them away after your lunch that would be really appreciated”. Mike smiles, and saunters off in the direction he came from, not waiting for my opinion about his request.

“I need this job. I need this job. I need this job.” I repeat in my head, like a mantra that will get me through the next five hours.

I say it all the way to my car, only stopping to give Lincoln, who looks furious, a friendly smile. I guess the audition didn’t go as well as he had hoped it would.

Luckily, I packed a delicious lunch for today, so by the time I demolish the last corner of my tortilla wrap, I am ready to face the world again. I suppose promoting my services in a different job was a little presumptuous, and many people have already taken one, so hopefully, word of mouth will promote me from this point on. To my utter dismay, the cards aren’t there. I wonder if the other women have thrown them in the bin out of spite, but they aren’t looking at me to watch my reaction. What a waste? All that money was spent on having them printed, and just like that, they are now in a bin somewhere. I feel the pressure of emotion behind my eyes, but decide that one thing I’m certain of while I’m discovering my genuine self, is that I’m not going to cry in front of people. I’m so riled up that I can’t help what comes out of my mouth next.

“Do any of you know what happened to my business cards?” I ask my ‘colleagues’.

A friendly lady is bouncing to tell me where they are, more than I can say for the other women who seem irritated by my question.

“Lincoln Huxley said that it was ridiculous that they had to be removed, but he was heading over to Oakwood Studios where talent was nurtured, and he was going to post them on the noticeboard and pass them to his friends.”

Smug.

Some say it’s a bad quality to possess, but seeing how their plan has been backed-fired, and my business cards are now mingling with the movie stars, I’m as smug as the proverbial cat that got the cream. I guess I do have the start of a friendship in the making.