Recreating Helena (DISCONTINUED)

1. Brick Walls and Black Pumps

1. Brick Walls and Black Pumps

“Helena!”

Helena Fairchild spun around to face her frowning mother. She made her way to where Helena stood at the front receptionist’s desk, her black pumps tapping a staccato rhythm on the black marble floor with each step that echoed in the otherwise-quiet entrance hall of the agency. Helena braced herself for the censure she knew was coming.

The former runway model turned president of ‘The Silken Showcase Modeling Agency’ was very displeased with her only child’s appearance, as usual.

Lysandra Fairchild had an image to maintain, and her daughter stubbornly refused to reflect the high standards she set. Side-by-side it was difficult to believe they were actually related. Lysandra was fair skinned, slim and about 5’8 without the four-inch pumps she was currently wearing. Her straight platinum blonde hair was secured in an artistically arranged messy bun that suited her oval face. Her blonde brows were perfectly shaped twin arches, under which were a pair of thickly lashed gray eyes. She had a straight nose and bow-shaped lips that were currently turned down in a frown.

She was wearing a tailored navy blue skirt suit with a white silk button-down blouse underneath. Her only jewellery was a simple genuine pearl necklace with matching ear bobs, and her natural-looking makeup only enhanced her natural beauty.

In contrast, Helena was 5’6 and weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds. Though she was also fair-skinned, she had a few faded blemishes on her cheeks, unlike her mother’s flawless face. Her straight dirty-blonde colored hair fell almost to her waist and was in it’s customary barely brushed and hanging free state. Her face was round, as was her nose, and her thick eyebrows weren’t tweezed perfection like Lysandra's. Helena’s hazel eyes had a ring of gold around their pupils, making them her most eye-catching feature. Her lips were full and pale rose in color.

She was dressed in a loose-fitting rumpled gray graphic t-shirt, worn wide-legged dark blue jeans and black low-top converse sneakers. Hanging on her left shoulder was her black messenger school bag. She wore a pair of simple medium-sized silver hoops in her ears and absolutely no makeup on whatsoever.

Helena was, in her mother’s eyes, hopelessly plain.

It wasn’t like Lysandra hadn’t done her part trying to get Helena to dress in something other than rumpled t-shirts, battered sneakers and baggy jeans - she’d bought her a variety of different outfits in an attempt to coerce her to dress better. 

Just because her daughter was overweight didn’t mean she couldn’t look good. That’s all Lysandra was trying to show her. Helena wouldn’t even wear makeup or do anything with her hair besides brush it a few times in the morning - and Lysandra owned two beauty salons!

Helena hadn’t been so defiant about Lysandra’s wishes before. Lysandra had decided a while ago that this was just some side effect of the bullying her daughter had experienced at her previous high school.

Helena hadn’t wanted to talk about it in detail with anyone when she’d ended up in a hospital bed, and she still had yet  to say anything, even though she’d already been transferred to a new high school at the start of her junior year a week ago.

“Hi, Mom”, Helena greeted without enthusiasm. Lysandra pointedly let her gray gaze travel from the toes of Helena’s sneakers to the top of her wind-tousled hair.

“Helena Marie Fairchild”, the older woman began in a carefully even tone, “I have explained to you almost a million times that when you leave the house - and especially if you’re coming to any of my businesses - how you look is a reflection of your father and I. Now why is it that you can’t put some effort into grooming yourself? You’re sixteen; you’re young - act like it! I’m forty-five and I’m more stylish than you. Doesn't that embarrass you? I am honestly getting tired of having this conversation with you repeatedly.” Lysandra tucked a strand of hair that had escaped her bun behind an ear impatiently. “I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall!”