When I was in beauty school learning skin care and makeup artistry, there was this tiny crimson-haired girl who went there with me. Her hair was corkscrewed and scrunched and twisted into buns. Her skin was fair and smooth and her eyes green green green. She worked at the Laura Mercier counter in a fancy department store. She hung scarves around her soft, small neck, real leather boots on her tiny white feet, expensive basic black skirts and turtlenecks on her wafer-thin frame. I was in awe of her powdery spirit and her smooth white chocolate voice and the restorative ease of her presence. Her fevered obsession with the product she sold, her emphatic emphasis on “The Flawless Face” convinced us all that surely we were doing something wrong with our own faces. No matter how poverty stricken the rest of us makeup artistry students were, we simply had to drive to her fancy department store and buy the pricey packaged in white and black kits from her. Only then would our faces be as buttery soft and flawless as hers. Who knows? our hair might even corkscrew and twist and curl and wrap itself into a perfect ballerina buns, our voices might crack and melt like creme brulee.