What Pretty Girls Are Made Of Read Online Free Page A

always mascara—even if she doesn’t always wear it—and she gets pissed when you don’t have color on your lips.” Jolie’s Bulgarian accent was adorable, and with dark hair down to the small of her back and lips akin to Kerry Washington’s perfect pout, she was an “it” girl to a T.
    “You can never wear snow boots, okay?” she urged. “Never wear flip-flops, and she hates bad skin. Oh, and you must always wear black.”
    “All right. I’ll keep that in mind.” I couldn’t wait to be given products of my own so that I could put on a great face every morning.
    A half hour later, my brows were tweezed. My first perk! And great timing, since I had a first date that night—lots of firsts. The other artists had appointments, so it was the perfect time to catch up with Jolie about the day and get the scoop about my new company.
    For example, she told me that snack time almost always involved fro-yo and cookies, which didn’t seem to show up on the asses of the tiny makeup artists.
    “Jan Lupman was here; did you do her today?” Carly asked with a smirk, peeking in to see how my brows were coming along. Her client was using the restroom and Carly was taking a minute to wash her brushes.
    “Big surprise,” Jolie replied. “She’s here every day. She told me yesterday that she had a funeral to go to and had to have her makeup touched up before, after, and tomorrow for the shiva. She said she wouldn’t wash her face last night since we could only fit her in for a touch-up this morning.”
    “Seriously?” I asked. She could afford to have her makeup done here almost every day but wouldn’t wash it off at night?
    “Yeah,” said Carly, “she was doing us the favor by sleeping in it. Crazy, right?”
    “Well, I guess if she can afford it, it’s a nice luxury to have,” I replied.
    “I’m moonlighting tonight,” Carly said. “I have to leave after this client if I’m going to make the train.”
    “You’re moonlighting doing what?” was my reply.
    “I make some extra money a few days a week doing mortuary makeup after work.”
    I stared blankly.
    “Yes, dead people,” she said, reading my mind. “It’s really not that bad. And they let you do whatever you want to them. The best clients are the ones that don’t talk back.” She laughed the deep, throaty laugh of a smoker. “Okay, have to get back to my client so I can get out of here. Your brows look great—Jolie’s the best.”
    Oh my God. She uses Sally Steele Cosmetics on corpses. Note to self: you need to learn more about this.
    Not wanting to gossip, but really wanting to gossip, I asked Jolie to fill me in a bit about Carly’s life.
    “How old is Carly?” I asked, then quickly clarified, “Sorry, was that rude? She just looks like she could be either thirty or a great-looking forty-five.”
    “She’s forty-six—can you believe it? It’s that baby face of hers. She’s had it tough, but it doesn’t show on her face.”
    Jolie explained that Carly’s canary-colored hair, fair skin, and WASP-y manner hid the past five years of her life.
    “She literally escaped from an abusive Italian husband, was never able to have children, and has a three-hour commute each day and the exhausting job of taking care of her elderly parents.”
    I hoped my life couldn’t be so easily compressed into a single sentence.
    Quite sad. Carly, I learned, grew up eating Spam from a can, loved her Gucci handbags, slept with married men, and made extra money putting faces on dead people.
    For real?
    Sounded to me like a character out of a Mamet play.
    The first chance I had to look at my watch turned out to be 3:30 p.m. Weren’t work hours supposed to creep by slowly? Not at a makeup studio, I guess, though my first day was probably way more social and full of getting to know the product and brand than subsequent days would be. Just as I made a mental note that I hadn’t spoken with Sally since the morning, Helen’s voice, with more than a touch of