take back everything I ever thought about fashion.
I look AMAZING! And I don't need a room-sized stack of Tori magazines to know that.
To think I always believed I somehow made the best clothes look like bin bags.
I know, I know. I'm rambling—something I spend half of my life doing—but I just feel… great. Different.
This fashion thing might just work out after all, the way I'm seeing things.
Why do I say that? Because I'm in a pleated skirt topped with an oversized hoodie splashed with the most beautiful shades of brown and white, like I just got mauled by a coffee truck.
And I'm sure if you've endured all my ramblings up to this point, you're probably disappointed.
You're likely thinking, Seriously? An oversized hoodie and a pleated skirt? Could Daisy Thompson's questionable fashion taste get any worse?
Well, it just did. But I feel great, at least staring back at the transformation that is me.
Marcella, my makeup artist, gave me false lashes that fan out in my face, blurring my already doubtful vision. They say humans blink about 15 to 20 times a minute.
With the way things are going, I might have exhausted mine in two seconds. They're going to have to carry me to the shoot if they want me to walk around without knocking things over. I'm already a potential hazard as it is.
I patted my hair, which had been weaved into the prettiest French braid ever, marveling at how it felt without my hair covering my entire face. With the light touch of concealer Marcella dabbed under my eyes and a hint of sparkly foundation making my cheeks pop, I looked completely and irrevocably different.
And I know no one uses irrevocably anymore, so don't hold me to it.
I might just get used to this, though—this being someone I'd never be.
And no, this is not another way of saying I'll take the job and steal Tori's dream. Absolutely not.
I'm just willing to experiment, that's all. I'd NEVER do that to Tori. NEVER.
"Daisy," Harry called from outside the dressing room. "We're ready for you."
"Coming!" I yelled, doing a little warm-up dance with the mirror as the unlucky audience. I practiced a few goofy frozen model poses, took deep, deep breaths, and balled my palms into fists.
You can do this, Daisy. You CAN DO THIS!!
"Ah, my fresh magenta, you look… ravishing!" Harry cried, dancing up to me, eyes wide and hands on his lips. He looked me up and down, gasping. "Dearie pie, you are just what I envisioned. Just a little fix here and there." He set to work, patting my hair down into misery, fluffing up my lashes a tad lower, blinding me even further, and patting my face. "That's it. Come on," he said, grabbing my hand and tugging me down the hall. I followed, muttering my mantra over and over again.
I can do this, I can do this.
I opened my eyes, and the blinding flashes of lights and cameras flooded them.
Who am I kidding? I can't do this.