I just felt on edge, somehow. If my mood was a crossword clue, the answer would be “discombobulated.”
I tried to think why, but was unable to arrive at a plausible conclusion.
I’d ended up taking the bus into town in the afternoon (free of charge—thank you, travel pass) and gone back to see Bobbi Brown.
Once again, Ms. Brown herself had failed to report for duty—I feared her work ethic was somewhat lacking—
and a different lady had made me up, almost the same as last time.
On this occasion, I’d purchased the multiple products and tools required to re-create the same face at home.
The total cost exceeded my monthly council tax bill by some margin, but I was in such a strange mood that this did not deter me.
I kept the painted face on all day, and had reapplied it this morning, in an almost exact facsimile.
The lady had shown me what to do, including the careful blending of concealer over my scars.
The smoky eye was a bit uneven today but that, she had said, was the beauty of a smoky eye—it didn’t need to be precise.
I’d forgotten I’d done it, until I got to the office and Billy whistled, a wolf whistle, in fact, which made the others turn and look.
“New hair, bit of lippy,” he said, nudging me with his elbow. I shrank back.
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