![]() ![]() “With a nude, glossy lip.” She puckers her mouth, smacking her lips. It’s fine that’s just how Mariah is-how she’s always been. ![]() “I’m thinking smoky eye,” she murmurs, instructing me, not chatty other than to tell me what she wants. That fact doesn’t escape my notice, but apparently it escapes hers. If I do her makeup, I’m not going to have time to do mine. Mariah plops herself in a chair, closes her eyes, and tips her head back, waiting like she’s a celebrity and I’m the stylist who has all the time in the world to work on her face. Her skin is tan, thanks to copious amounts of fake bronzer, so I go with something dark, pulling a compact of bronzer from my drawer. The foundation brush I’m holding between my fingers gets set on the counter, and instead of evening out my own complexion, I pull out a shade of concealer that matches Mariah’s skin. ![]() I can do your makeup.” Of course I can-I always do. I hate when my friend and roommate, Mariah, calls me Farmer Ted she does it when she’s trying to get my attention, and it always works. ![]()
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