Beauty is Only as Deep as…

Dreams are a wish your heart make when you’re fast asleep. In dreams you will lose your heartaches, whatever your wish for, you keep. Have faith in your dreams and some day your…
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!
Another morning; just like all the rest.  I slip out of bed and gracefully move to the vanity where I examine the results of my beauty sleep. Yes, I’m far too pretty today.
My tummy is too tight, my hair too straight and shiny. My lips are too pink and my skin is too clean. My eyes are far too big and bright and my smile too white and happy.
So I pour myself a bowl of Lucky Charms, top it with whole milk and pop a cinnamon roll in the toaster oven.  I kick my snow white guaranteed-to-make-you-lose-ten-pounds running shoes aside as I sit down on the couch. Balancing my breakfast of champions on one knee, I  turn the TV to the latest talk show drama featuring two women begging through fountains of tears and catlike screams  for the audience to believe that they, not the other #*$@!, is the mother of Mr. Playboy’s baby.
When every last sticky drop has been licked from my bowl, I dig around in the bathroom cabinet for my makeup bag, ready to apply all the newest tips and tricks. I line up my arsenal on the counter: tweezers, brushes, powders, gels, mascara, blush, curlers and pencils.
The eyebrows are the first to go. My trusty tweezers pull and pluck their natural curve into a hardy straight line. Next I pile on foundation, a shade darker than my skin color and I am sure to leave a line along my chin. Wouldn’t want my neck and face to be the same color. I then attack it with powder, which, when the dust cloud dissipates, has effectively settled into every pore, line and crack. Perfect.
My eyes are still too bright so, mouth open, tongue hanging out and two inches from the mirror, I raccoon my eyes with pencil and apply coat after coat after coat of mascara until my eyes are hidden in a curtain of black. I finish by covering the offending pink of my lips with a fashionable shade of nude lipstick.
Then, with curling iron in one hand and Ultimate-mega-hold-your-style-all-day-and-for-eternity hair spray in the other I alternate between curling and spraying, curing and spraying, curling and spraying, until my hair is a mass of stiff, sticky frizz. Nice.
Stepping in to my closet I survey the options, tossing the rejects on to the floor. Yellow or teal shirt? Oh, definitely the red flowy shirt that makes me look prego to go with my fifteen inch stilettos. Pants? No, too concealing. Ooo, leggings! Just have to show off every curve of that cinnamon roll. I sling my hey-look-I’m-a-designer-bag over my shoulder, making sure my chapstick, lipstick, makeup bag, wallet, spork, lunch, iphone, sunglasses, change of clothes, flats, water bottle and the kitchen sink are safely stowed inside.
I teeter out the door, happy with my efforts. I mean, Cinderella had a fairy godmother to dress her up and help her catch her prince. Even that old lady with the sparkly wand knew that beauty is only as deep as your makeup bag.
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