I’m in a trance on this bed, cocooned in a heated blanket while Cynthia, my Cleopatra resembling esthetician, rubs imported Israeli cream on my face with her long, gentle fingers. It smells of sea crystals and violets with traces of white pepper. I’m thinking about lathering it all over a piece of cake or turning it into a flavor that can be inserted into cigarettes. She holds the florescent light and magnifying glass an inch to my face and gets a good look.
“Oh, my. What has happened to your face?” she asks me. Her thick brow arches into a sharp upside down V. I try not to stare.
“Have you changed make up?” she inquires as she removes the light and flips on the micro dermabrasion machine. It’s factory loud. We must talk over it, which, to be honest, is kind of annoying.
“My best friend made me buy organic make up,” I shout and glance over at the white boxy beast that’s stealing all the attention. These machines freak me out. They seem so dated for 2011. I’m waiting for it to start talking.
“Well honey, get your money back. You have acne.”
And with that I almost stopped breathing, considering I have pretty flawless skin normally … that is until I went organic.
I’m assured once I stop the make up I’ll return back to normal.
I arrive home and begin rummaging through my receipt box searching for the one that says Sephora when I see the red You have an email light flickering. I’m notified I have an audition for a popular TV show. I enthusiastically open it and read the attached sides.
I have six words: “My apartment” and “Can I bum one?”
I close the lap top.
I call a family member of mine (who’s in the entertainment industry) for advice. I wonder if getting this part will take me out of the running to be a guest star on the show.
“All the guest starring roles are going to movie stars,” he offers up as advice. “I’d go on the audition. It’s work right?” he suggests.
I can see it now. I arrive at the audition. I’ve attempted to cover my acne, and that’s exactly what it looks like with this sticky cream. I take my seat among the twenty Barbie doll blondes staring at themselves in mirrors. They nervously practice these words over and over and differently. Some are talking to walls, some are walking into walls, and others stare into their papers, tapping their feet. So many phony smiles, so much competition. I think for parts like this they should make us fight for it. Like, literally. Girl fight, weapons permitted. We should open it up to paying crowds. May the best blonde get this role … and Go!
Alice can be reached at AliceActress@yahoo.com.