Niall and Liam and hair for Louis. They ask me questions and I answer them in one word answers. All of them ask me if I’m okay multiple times.
Damn I hate that word okay. What does it even mean? Satisfactory but not exceptional.Why would anybody ask you if you were just satisfactory but not exceptional? I mean no one really wants to be just okay. People want to be good or great or excellent, not okay. People should ask if your stupendous or if your sad. Not if your just fine.
I almost catch Harry staring at me, twice. Both times I accidentally (or not so accidentally) look over at him, all I see his head quickly turning in the opposite direction. It makes me sad, but I know that it’s my fault that he’s not even willing to be caught looking at me.
The boys head out for their photoshoot and Lou and I are left alone again. I’m grateful for the peace and quiet. I’m already exhausted and the privacy is relieving.
Because it’s a photoshoot Lou and I have to stick around, just in case one of the boys needs touchups on their makeup or they move outside and need makeup for natural light instead of stage makeup.
I accompanied my mum on various photo shoots similar to this one. On weekends I would always go with her to ‘help out’. When I was little I really wasn’t much of a help at all and would just sit and watch my mother work. Once I was a little bit older though, I was able to actually assist her in little ways such as handing her mascaras and eyeliners or running errands for her.
She truly made makeup look like an art. Like she was a painter creating a masterpiece. I loved watching her work. Seeing her hands dance gracefully across the model or celebrities beautiful face, perfecting every possible flaw. She could make anything or anyone look beautiful and she made it look so easy.
I pull out my new sketch pad that I bought last week. I haven’t drawn anything in it yet. All of the pages are blank, waiting for me to create something out of nothing. However today, I can think of nothing to draw. Usually I find it fairly easy to find something to draw. I have no inspiration or drive today. I can’t even bring myself to draw something dark and depressing.
So instead, I lay on the couch and look up at the ceiling, thinking deeply. I pull on the rubber band on my wrist every once in a while in an attempt to feel something. Feeling hurt is better than not feeling at all. It doesn’t really work in the way that I want it to though.
Lou sits in a nearby chair but keeps herself very busy. She reads, sleeps, talks on the phone, does her nails, reapplies her makeup and does all of the touchups for the boys. I know that she can tell I’m having a bad day.
Part of me wants her to ask me what’s wrong, and the other half is dreading it.
Now that I have worked for her for a little bit, she knows me. Or she thinks she knows me. She knows that I don’t like talking about my past. The few times the she’s brought up my mum in conversation, I’ve shut her down very quickly. She knows that I don’t like talking about my feelings and that I’m not an open book. I have layers and layers of subtext and things about me that are not apparent at first glance.
Lou talks to me a few times but for the most part the room is quiet until Lou announces, “Okay I’m going to go get a coffee across the street, do you want anything?” Lou asks me, as she slips her wallet out of her purse. She turns to me, her head tilted curiously.
I turn my head slightly sideways to face her and shake my head, “No thank you.”
“Think you can handle any touchups if the boys need any?” Lou asks me, standing from her chair. I can tell she is a little bit concerned to why I am so quiet today but I really don’t feel like telling her.
