As my sister’s wedding drew near, given that I was her maid of honor, it became apparent to me that it was my job to take all of the ladies in the wedding party to the salon on the day of the wedding. This was fine with me, except that I hadn’t worn makeup or done my hair for years. After much convincing from the bride, I decided to get my makeup done with them, and regretted that decision every second after it was made.
The day approached all too soon. I was blown back by the smell of burnt hair and nail polish immediately upon opening the door for the wedding party. Trying to keep a happy face for my sister, I put holes through my tongue with my teeth so as not to gasp or gag in disgust. For all of the other females, this assault on the nostrils seemed enjoyable, as if they had all found they’re natural environment. Every face I saw look back at me when I peered through the haze was burnt to a crisp, similar to the color of pumpkin pie, and layered in a spectral mask.
As I led the party back to our reserved section, we passed women of all ages sitting with glee as their hair was ripped from their head, being scorched with no mercy, and their faces were plastered with unnatural chemicals. I was astounded at how happy and childlike these women looked while their heads were being tortured; had they no idea? I tried to hide away after getting all of my ladies settled, but they would have none of it. My heart started pounding as a pack of rabid hyenas, cackling and foaming at the mouth with excitement, dragged me by my wrists to the hard as rock chair that I was sure had a layer of styling goo and makeup crust on it. I feared that would never release me from its grasp again.
Instantly after my obviously not-cushioned-enough butt hit the chair, a whole new group of jackals was hovering in my face, plotting its demise. Although I’m sure to other people it looked gentle, as far as I could tell they spent the next few minutes slamming...