What next?

5- The time we became Australian citizens

"ShowTime."

***

Brown curls framing an oval face, dark eyebrows framing bright green eyes, light bulbs framing a large makeup mirror. I looked at myself, and the stylist toying with my hair. It was currently in some complex up-do, most of it pulled back with only a few short, frizzy stray ringlets dangling by my ears.

This was the second time the stylist, a petite strawberry blonde, was attempting to put it up. The first time I had shaken it out in an attempt to get away from the makeup she tried to put on my face. Considering my wrists and ankles had been clamped to the chair by some guards, shaking my head furiously and sending pins everywhere was the only effective thing I could do. I would have cooperated the way Finchy did, obviously she did not mind being done up, but not wearing makeup is my own little way of saying fuck you, society. All the stupid stereotypes, pressure to look one way really gets on my nerves. That's just the start of it, but I wont go into detail. It's nothing but a hatred I can do nearly nothing about.

Cross, Mere and Piper are more lenient on that area, wearing it on rare occasions as long as it subtle. I'm not sure their reason for not wearing it, but to be honest, they all look better without it. Cross cooperated (if you were to say Cross could cooperate with living things) by holding still...ish. She cringed away from the stylist but still had nearly perfect Smokey eyes. She was to my right. I hadn't seen Piper yet and Mere was still missing.

I looked behind my squirrely stylist in the mirror. I nearly burst out laughing. Oak was behind me, having her blonde hair intricately braided while two guards held her head steady. She had the most frustrated, almost pouty face on and was glaring at her own reflection: light eyebrows drawn together, lips puckered as if the situation itself were sour. Her grey eyes trailed up and my own. I noticed she had a huge coppery eyeliner smudge where the dark circles under her eyes usually were. She scowled; I nearly died from laughter.

In the midst of my laugh attack, I heard yelling and scuffling. I turned my head around only to see Piper...in her underwear? She bolted around the corner, long brown hair nearly whipping a female stylist in the face. There were several chasing her. One had a short black dress in her hand, with ribbons dangling from the back.

"Don ta me! Aw sick my woot up wor ass!"

The threat would have sounded alot better without the gag was still in her mouth. Pretty sure she ment don't touch me or I'll stick my foot up your ass. Classic Piper.Her back was against the wall, a scowl of determination on her face. Once again, she had her hands in fists, ready to strike out at anything.

All action had stopped. The stylists were not fidgeting with hair and the soldiers, who were restraining the mutts, turned their attention to the entertainment. Someone let out a long low whistle, probably one of the immature guy mutts. Obviously Piper knew who it was. She took her eyes off the attacking stylists for an instant, just long enough to give him the finger. There was no noise other than an announcer's voice, applause and running footsteps, which came from the hallway Piper appeared out of. As I should have expected, Cruise's winded voice came from the hall.

"Don't touch her you guys! She looks fine!"

He skidded into view, stopping short at the silent crowd staring him down. Now sporting a black dress shirt and fancy black dress pants, he frantically searched the room for Piper. His eyes landed on her and after a moment of shock, he turned his head away quickly and put his hands up as if to give her privacy. I agree it would be awkward seeing a person in their underwear after knowing them for about two days, but honestly out of all the people staring at her right now, Cruise wouldn't make a difference.

"Aw shit sorry! Where the hell are your clothes?"

"See? Stop making it awkward and put on the damn dress," insisted one of the stylists, advancing. Piper instantly punched her in the face. The stylist backed away, stumbling with a hand on her now bleeding nose. She still held the layered dress to the side, attempting not to get blood on it. Cross and I snickered and jinxed: