RENAISSANCE

36. Rave-up

"Ouch!" I exclaimed.

Suzan had just burned my ear with her blow dryer.

"Isabella, you move way too much!" she said, firmly holding my shoulders to put me back in place.

"I think it's fine like this!" I shouted through the noise and blasts of hot air.

When she turned off the machine, the absence of noise almost echoed in the bathroom.

"Your hair is so long! I'm exhausted."

She then leaned over to grab the hairspray placed on the edge of the sink, and with a steady hand, she sprayed it, fixing the final details of my hairstyle.

"All right, makeup and blowout are done, now all you have to do is put on your dress."

"Thank you, Suzan," I said, getting up from my chair. "The result is beautiful as always."

"Maybe I was a makeup artist and hairstylist in another life, who knows."

Her back was now facing me, and I watched her, absorbed by her actions as she touched up her own hair. The hint of sadness, or perhaps regret, in her voice engulfed me, leaving an unanswered question hanging in the air. A shiver of curiosity overwhelmed me. What stories was she hiding behind this facade of lightness? Maybe she used to do these kinds of things with her late sister? The one she had never mentioned to me again.

Or maybe not, maybe the sadness in her voice simply reflected the vocation she hadn't been able to choose. How did she end up being part of this dark world?

Pushing these thoughts aside gently to not spoil the evening, I postponed the desire to delve into the depths of our untold stories.

When my friend turned to me, having finished her own preparations, I was struck by the glow of her beauty. She had sculpted her own appearance into a living work of art. Her dark chestnut hair cascaded in ordered waves, framing her face where her touch of makeup accentuated her hazel eyes and pink lips.

"You look so beautiful," I said, continuing to admire her pale pink dress that matched perfectly with her fair complexion.

The admiration in my voice was genuine, it was the pure expression of my wonder.

She smiled, and I could see a spark of pride in her eyes, a glimmer that, I hoped, also illuminated the shadow of her sorrow.

"Hug," she invited, opening her arms wide to welcome me.

We approached each other for this exchange, and as usual, her arms were for me like a refuge, a space of soothing serenity. She inspired the same tranquility as the gentle waves of a calm lake at dusk.

It was her calm and gentle nature that simply emanated from her gestures.

"Your hair smells like vanilla," she murmured.

As we separated slowly, a smile appeared on our lips, reflecting our complicity.

"You've already told me that."

"At this point, please give me the brand of your shampoo," she pretended to beg, grabbing my arm with a puppy-dog expression.

"Suzan!" Mike's voice echoed from downstairs.

She sighed, rolling her eyes.

"They really can't manage without me."

"You're a bit like their mom," I said, smiling. "But by the way, how old are you?"

I had never asked her, and I think until today this question had not mattered to me.

"Twenty-two! I'm only two years older than you."