Her legs are freshly waxed, smooth and soft. Her skin, though, is too dry, she thinks, and looks over at the moisturiser, allowing a momentary digression of wistful thinking at the fact that she has to do it herself. She sighs inwardly and reaches for it.
She paints her nails avoiding the thought that this, too, she must do herself. She chooses a rich dark red, carefully applying colour, concentrating, avoiding the edges, the sharp chemical smell wafting in the air. It makes her think of perfume… she really only has one that she likes, she is not really a perfume lover, but maybe… she makes a mental note that she knows will be forgotten. It is not important.
Her long hair is freshly washed, she dries it carelessly and when it is dry, she uses the straightener. It is already straight, but the iron gives it a structure and shine. She does it almost randomly, taking whatever pieces are at hand and pulling them through the hotplates. It doesn’t take long.
She studies her face in the mirror, she looks tired, she feels tired. She quickly plucks some stray eyebrow hairs, applies some make up to cover the flaws, a little neutral eye shadow, no mascara, not today. She pouts into the mirror and pats some lip stain onto her full lips, a little gloss to finish. She steps back, makes a face at herself.
She goes to her wardrobe, eschewing bright for something dark, calm and simple. She chooses a pretty summer dress, a strappy black, with splashes of colour in large red roses and green vines. She slips it on, she has not worn it for a while. She twirls in front of the mirror, smiles a little at herself… it looks good, she is relieved.
She has bought new shoes, black satin stiletto heels with a peep toe, pretty and conservative. She will post a picture on her blog, she thinks, though right now the effort to orchestrate the photo-taking seems beyond her. She perches on the edge of the bed, slips them on, the blood red nails peeking out. She stands, towering now.
It feels, she thinks to herself, just like getting ready for a date.
She looks at the clock, takes a deep breath and feels the stutter start in her chest, rising up to her throat. She hears a tiny sound catch there, she shakes her head, grits her teeth, takes a few more deep breaths. She pushes it back down, silently telling herself to stop it, there will be enough of that later.
She picks up her bag, opens the door. One more deep breath for strength and she heads out to her mother’s funeral.