The Showcase

Chapter Eight

"Amia, Get up! We're gonna be late!"

I groaned, smacking Carita sleepily with a pillow. She smacked me back twice as hard.

"Out of bed, now!" She demanded, shoving me onto the floor.

I groaned again, hitting the floor with a dull thud that rattled my bones. "I'm up!" I whined.

Carita dragged me by my ankles towards a door on the west wall. "Shower! You have exactly ten minutes!" She opened it and dropped me inside onto the cold tiled floor.

I grumbled to myself and got up off the floor, opening the glass door of the shower and dragging back the huge floor-to-ceiling curtains on the window. Just like outside, the entire wall was one huge window. I smiled as the sunlight flooded the room.

With the lukewarm, early morning sunshine on my back, I tapped the keypad on the side of the shower, setting the water pressure to 'gentle' and the temperature to 'cold.' I climbed in and pulled the door shut behind me.

I wasn't nervous anymore, just excited for what was yet to come. Carita and I stayed up late talking, and she'd explained to me that the whole week was going to be pretty simple. I'd have photo shoots, interviews, and dinner with my staff every day to discuss plans for the following day.

My 'staff' consisted of her, Eleanor, Marshal, and my stylist; a guy named Brice, who I'd meet later on this morning. Every Product has a four-man staff, along with a floor in the building--which the staff nicknamed "The Product Palace"--and a private car.

I had my last big interview Saturday evening, and then Sunday would be my first day of the month long spectacle.

I heard pounding on the door. "Time's up!"

I sighed, letting the cool water washing over me one more time, before stepping out and shutting it off. A pile of clothes were waiting for me, folded neatly inside the box on the wall. I pulled the jeans and sweater out and quickly put them on; scowling when I realized that it went off the shoulder.

I grabbed a towel, and opened the door. "Ready!" I shouted, drying my hair and stepping into a pair of boots that were also in the box.

"Great!" Carita said, tossing me a bagel and a bottle of mineral water. "Marshal!"

"No need to yell," he mumbled, appearing out of nowhere and sauntering over to the elevator. "In, in! We can't be late!"

***

"Darling!" Eleanor exclaimed brightly as we approached her at the photo-shoot, twenty minutes later. "How'd you sleep?"

I shrugged, she smiled and tapped me on the nose.

"I understand. How could you possibly sleep with all this excitement going on?" She gestured around, and there were at least a dozen people, running back and forth from table to table, yelling and throwing things around.

She steered me towards a table in the far back of the room, sitting me in the chair and calling out, "Brice?"

An older man, maybe in his forties, with his hair--even his facial hair--dyed a deep burgundy stopped in front of us. "This is her?" He drawled, sounding bored already.

She nodded and added quietly, "She needs a lot of work. He found her wearing a sweatshirt!"

Brice looked scandalized. He gave me the once over, ordering me to stand or smile every few seconds or so. Then he turned and clapped his hands, gathering his team's attention. Everyone stopped and looked at him attentively.

"Alright then, I want hair to set up. You've got a tough job ahead of you! Cosmetics, as soon as you hear the blow driers, get ready. You'll have it a little easier, much less to do in your department. Wardrobe, I want you to throw away everything that features the colors yellow, purple or blue. And black. Toss everything with ruffles, anything plaid... actually, I'll help you with that."

"Carita, see to it that she doesn't come out looking too different. But I do want improvement, major improvement," Eleanor said firmly. Carita nodded and grabbed my hand, taking me over to the hair station. I threw her an anxious glance as I was sat down and the cape was tied around my neck.

"Don't worry!" she smiled encouragingly. "It's only six hours!"

***

Hair was the most painful piece of the process. I sat for two and a half hours will they wash, rinsed, and repeated.

They soaked my hair in harsh, metallic-smelling chemicals and snipped, brushed and curled it to perfection. Once they were finished, my usually straight, honey brown hair hung in silky, beachy waves and streaked with highlights. They also cut one strand shorter than the others and dyed it, so now I had one dirty blonde bang that went over my left eye.

After that, we were led over to cosmetics. They started with my body, taking me into a small, closet-like room and ordering me to take off my clothes, pull up my hair, put my arms above my head and stand very still. I did what they said, and they closed the door. A thin, green beam of light shone on my neck and slid down my body slowly, taking hair off as it went.

"What was that?" I asked when I stepped out.

"Follicle sealant. It removes hair and then prevents it from growing back."

They exfoliated me and gave me a mani/pedi.

When they moved to my face, they decided that I didn't need contacts. The whole team agreed that my hazel eyes could stay, especially since it went so well with my new hair color. So the team stuck to makeup, teaching me how to apply mascara, eye shadow, lipstick, and a million other products to my face. Not that I'd need to while I was here. Apparently, I had people to do that for me too. But, I got the hang of it after a while, and soon I was pretty good.

All that was left was the wardrobe department. They took me up to the third floor, which was the girls' clothing department. Brice led me from room to room, grabbing shirts, skirts, jackets, and shoes, and holding them up to me. He would lose himself in thought for a moment, and then he would either simply drop the article onto the floor or throw it into the hands of the two poor interns who were given the job of carrying my mountains of clothes.

"Wow," Carita said when I stepped out of the changing room in gray mini skirt and an orange sweater, matched with neon orange combat boots and a high ponytail.

"You look absolutely gorgeous," Eleanor beamed.

I stumbled a little, trying to get used to the weight of the shoes. "Thanks."

"You'd better keep wearing that orange," Carita said with a sly smile.

"Why?"

"'Cuz if you don't," she smirked, "someone might just mistake you for a Beauty."

***

Author's Note: Thanks again for reading everyone! This chapter's song is 'I Love It' by Icona Pop!