EPIC (Book 1 of the Soundcrush series)

Chapter 32: Rock Stars' Stylists Are Good At Their Job

Kat

An LA stylist is kind of like a drill sergeant. Over the course of the next two and half hours, Tamara broke me down. And then she completely built me back up. She'd already had the facialist strip my pores, but she piled on, stripping my hair of product, my body of clothes, making me try on the dresses she ordered for me, watching me as I glared at myself in the mirror, assessing me as I assessed myself critically.

After we decide on a dress, and I put my robe back on, she turns me away from the mirror and goes to work on my make-up and my shitty self-concept.

"Girl, what is it you don't like about your left eye, your upper lip, your toes, and your butt?" she challenged.

I sigh. "My left eye is smaller than my right, upper lip has too many creases, I always have to check my toes to make sure I don't have any random hairs growing on them, and my butt almost pops but it's not round enough right at the bottom where you want it, no matter how many squats I do." I groan. "I know. I sound like the vainest, most insipid bitch ever."

"Nope, you sound exactly like every pretty girl I've ever met. I used to model. I had to double-up on anti-depressants just to show up for calls.I have heard every criticism about my body you can imagine, and when they couldn't find real flaws, people would just make up shit to keep the me anxiety-ridden, I think.You wouldn't believe the shit I heard. One time a photographer told me to never, ever wave with my right hand because my middle finger on that hand was fatter."

"Oh, Jesus, what did you say?"

"Gave him the big fat middle finger, of course" She demonstrates. I laugh so hard she swats me. "Stop laughing before you cry and ruin those eyes!That was my last call. I quit modeling after that. I decided I wanted to make people feel confident instead of feeling like a neurotic mess myself. I didn't really know what I was going to do at first—I was thinking like a style consultant business, you know? I was just hanging with Bodie in LA, helping him adjust to the scene and find his image, cause he was clueless. Then I realized all the Soundcrush guys were just as freaked over their new fame and images as me and my model friends were. These guys needed help, you know?"

Tamara is finished with my makeup now. She helps me slide into the dress we chose, and she takes the curlers out of my hair. She still won't let me see myself.

"I dunno. They seem pretty confident to me." I picture Trace's rock star swagger.

"Sure, now. The first year they were a mess."

"Now listen," she continues, "I love makeup and hair, and I love helping people bring out their natural beauty and look their best, but at the end of the day, all this shit, it's not why Trace wants you," she assures me, as she fluffs and sprays my hair after. "All those girls last night at the party with their fake eyelashes and their boobs taped up, and six different shades of highlights, and you were the only one he saw—cute little barefoot wethead with her smudgy-come-sweat-with-me-eyes. I ain't gonna lie and say he doesn't like your god-given looks, but he's crazy about you—the you on the inside—whether you rock the diva or the hometown honie, okay?"

"I know," I confess.

"Are you sure you know? Because I don't want you to think you have to go big like this everyday to keep that boy on the hook. He didn't ask me to style you for him. He did this for you, so you feel special. So you see in yourself what he already sees..."

She turns me around.

"You're really good at your job," I murmur.

Tamara huffs, "Girl, I know."

It's me in the mirror, but like I imagine myself on my wedding day, the perfect mix of glistening girl and grown-up woman. The way Tamara has contoured my face, I look both sunkissed sweet and siren sexy. She opened up my eyes with an artist's skill far beyond my own, no matter how many YouTube make-up tutorials I watch. She left my hair down—it's shiny and piecey and natural.

My dress is summery and sweet--a mint green skater dress with a halter neck and open back. I swing slightly and let the flouncy skirt brush across my mid-thighs as my hair tickles my bare shoulders and back. It's the perfect style for me, and I feel amazing in it.

"Do I want to know how much this dress cost?" I ask.

"Oh, not much at all. Something I picked up off the rack shopping yesterday evening. About a quarter of the price of the shoes," she winks at me. "These go best with that dress." She hands me a pair of Saint Laurent Espadrilles. "Although, Trace specifically told me to buy you these." She presents me with a brown shoebox like a page would present a queen with a crown. "He said every beautiful girl needs a good pair of fuck-me shoes. But tell him no matter how bad he's fantasizing you in those Louboutins, you can't be hoofing around New Orleans in six inch heels. You'll break your ankle."

The Louboutins are the most beautiful shoes I've ever seen—and just like you think—black lace, red soles. I try them on and she's right—I couldn't walk a cobbled block like this, but they look incredible. I model them in the mirror.

I sigh. Trace has got to stop.

I put the Louboutin's back in the red dust back with some regret, as I strap on the also-outrageously expensive sandals. I need to talk to Trace about all these extravagant gifts. I'm very conflicted. On the one hand, all his gifts make me feel special and cared for. On the other hand, I feel...spoiled and undeserving. I'm just a regular eighteen year-old girl. I don't even know what I want to do with my life yet. I'm not talented or ambitious like Trace and beside him, I feel fraudulent and insubstantial. Like...arm cotton candy.

"Nope." Tamara waves a finger in my face. "Whatever bad thought you are thinking about yourself, just stop. Trace is a lucky guy to have a beautiful, smart, ride-or-die like you, and he knows it. And he's just trying to show you how much he appreciates you. Baby girl, he looks at you like he's a drowning man and you are the only buoy in the sea. Now stop your head-trippin' and go enjoy your night with your lifelong crush, alright? You're livin' the dream! Have fun!"

"Tamara, you were at the front of the line when God gave out sense, weren't you?" I grin at my new friend.

"You right," Tamara says and snaps my picture, thrusts a little purse in my hand, and shoves me out of her room.