An Anonymous Girl(2)

“I’m really proud of you,” my mom says. “I can’t wait to hear all about it next week.”

I feel like she wants to add something more, but even though I haven’t quite reached my destination—a student housing complex at NYU—I end the call.

“Give Becky a kiss. I love you.”


My rules for any job kick in even before I arrive.

I evaluate my clients the moment I see them—I notice eyebrows that would look better darkened, or a nose that needs shading to appear slimmer—but I know my customers are sizing me up, too.

The first rule: my unofficial uniform. I wear all black, which eliminates the need to coordinate a new outfit every morning. It also sends a message of subtle authority. I choose comfortable, machine-washable layers that will look as fresh at seven P.M. as they do at seven A.M.

Since personal space vanishes when you’re doing someone’s makeup, my nails are short and bufed, my breath is minty, and my curls are swept up in a low twist. I never deviate from this standard.

I rub Germ-X on my hands and pop an Altoid in my mouth before I ring the buzzer for Apartment 6D. I’m five minutes early. Another rule.

I take the elevator to the sixth floor, then follow the sound of loud music—Katy Perry’s “Roar”—down the hallway and meet my clients. One is in a bathrobe, and the other wears a T-shirt and boxers. I can smell the evidence of their last beauty treatment—the chemicals used to highlight blond streaks into the hair of the girl named Mandy, and the nail varnish drying on the hands Taylor is waving through the air.

“Where are you going tonight?” I ask. A party will likely have stronger lighting than a club; a dinner date will require a subtle touch.

“Lit,” Taylor says.

At my blank look, she adds: “It’s in the Meatpacking District. Drake was just there last night.”

“Cool,” I say.

I wind through the items scattered across the floor—an umbrella, a crumpled gray sweater, a backpack—then move aside the SkinnyPop popcorn and half-empty cans of Red Bull on the low coffee table so I can set down my case. I unlatch it and the sides fold out like an accordion to reveal tray upon tray of makeup and brushes.

“What kind of look are we going for?”

Some makeup artists dive in, trying to cram as many clients as possible into a day. I take the extra time I’ve built into my schedule to ask a few questions. Just because one woman wants a smokey eye and a naked mouth doesn’t mean another isn’t envisioning a bold red lip and only a swipe of mascara. Investing in those early minutes saves me time on the back end.

But I also trust my instincts and observations. When these girls say they want a sexy, beachy look, I know they really want to resemble Gigi Hadid, who is on the cover of the magazine splayed across the love seat.

“So what are you majoring in?” I ask.

“Communications. We both want to go into PR.” Mandy sounds bored, like I’m an annoying adult asking her what she wants to be when she grows up.

“Sounds interesting,” I say as I pull a straight-back chair into the strongest light, directly under the ceiling fixture.

I start with Taylor. I have forty-five minutes to create the vision she wants to see in the mirror.

“You have amazing skin,” I say. Another rule: Find a feature to compliment on every client. In Taylor’s case, this isn’t difficult.

“Thanks,” she says, not lifting her gaze from her phone. She begins a running commentary on her Instagram feed: “Does anyone really want to see another picture of cupcakes?” “Jules and Brian are so in love, it’s gross.” “Inspirational sunset, got it . . . glad you’re having a rocking Friday night on your balcony.”

As I work, the girls’ chatter fades into background noise, like the drone of a hair dryer or city traffic. I lose myself in the strokes of different foundations I’ve applied to Taylor’s jawline so I can match her skin tone flawlessly, and in the swirl of copper and sandy hues I blend on my hand to bring out the gold flecks in her eyes.

I’m brushing bronzer onto her cheeks when her cell phone rings.

Taylor stops tapping hearts and holds up her phone: “Private number. Should I get it?”

“Yes!” Mandy says. “It could be Justin.”

Taylor wrinkles her nose. “Who answers their phone on a Friday night, though? He can leave a message.”

A few moments later, she touches the speakerphone button and a man’s voice fills the room: “This is Ben Quick, Dr. Shields’s assistant. I’m confirming your appointments this weekend, for tomorrow and Sunday from eight to ten A.M. The location again is Hunter Hall, Room 214. I’ll meet you in the lobby and take you up.”

Taylor rolls her eyes and I pull back my mascara wand.

“Can you keep your face still, please?” I ask.

“Sorry. Was I out of my mind, Mandy? I’m going to be way too hungover to get up early tomorrow.”

“Just blow it of.”

“Yeah. But it’s five hundred bucks. That’s, like, a couple sweaters from rag & bone.”

These words break my concentration; five hundred is what I make for ten jobs.

“Gah. Forget it. I’m not going to set an alarm to go to some dumb questionnaire,” Taylor says.

Must be nice, I think, looking at the sweater crumpled in the corner.