BROKEN GLASS. TOM KAULITZ

xvi . semi-formal pt. 2

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HAIR. I stand in front of the floor length mirror mounted on the back of my closet door and try to figure out what I'm going to do with my hair.

Tom won't be here for another two and a half hours, but any girl knows you need at least three to look your best for a semi-formal. And I haven't even showered yet.

So I do that.

And then I stand in front of the mirror mounted on the back of my closet door and try to figure out what I'm going to do with my wet hair.

Blow dry it, probably. For starters. So I do that while vaguely recalling a time I made checklists on dance nights. I reduced getting ready to a list of tasks, all of them allotted certain amounts of time for completion.

As I checked off each one, I got to enjoy a warm feeling of accomplishment for an allotted 1.5 seconds.

But not tonight. The lack of structure disorients me. I decide to leave my hair down and curl the ends. While I wait for the iron to warm, I pick out my best black dress from the closet. It has off the shoulder short sleeves and stops just before the knees.

Decent, but sexy, and miraculously uneaten by moths. I have a feeling it's not going to fit with the ten pounds I've gained and the fact that I haven't done anything remotely physical since I quit the cheerleading squad, but unfortunately it does fit.

Kind of.

My boobs look desperate to break free of the soft satin material that binds them, and if I sit I have a sneaking suspicion the whole dress could split down the back. But if that happens, then hey, at least I'll have an excuse to leave early.

The dress (barely) on, I begin to work on my hair, which is a longer process than I'd like it to be or ever remember it being. It's because I don't have a list.

And the makeup. That's another beast entirely.
How did I do this every day for school? I didn't need a checklist then. The routine was so ingrained in me because it was so important because — why?

Because I had to look perfect, of course.
I pick through the collection of makeup on my desk.

Foundation, concealer, lipstick, lip gloss, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara and blush. Holy fucking shit, I haven't touched any of this in a long time.

I settle for clear gloss and mascara and then stand in front of the mirror and inspect myself.
It's good, I guess.

"Priscilla!" Mom shouts. "Priscilla, they've just pulled up!" I grab my black clutch and hear Mom cooing all three of them into the house before I'm halfway down the stairs.

I've barely stepped into the living room when Frogley comes bounding at me, lampshade tight around his neck.

"Frog, stop!" I say before he can jump up. He comes to a screeching halt and I reward him with a pat because I can't help it, he looks that ridiculous. "Good dog."

"Look at that! You know, he doesn't even fetch my slippers anymore," Dad says from his recliner, smiling. "You look beautiful, honey."