Post by Eema Braazkumov on Jul 29, 2008 20:37:31 GMT
Cheryl looked at her reflection in the dressing table mirror and sighed heavily. She pulled at the jowls on her face muttering something about an 'ugly old bloodhound'. If she grinned widely, the lines around her mouth almost disappeared. But what did an old hag like her have to grin about anyway?
She inspected her thinning hair, once golden, that had shimmered in the lights of the dance hall, circa 1952. Now salt and pepper, which basically meant 'patchy grey'.
She smoothed the powder compact sponge over her skin, pulling it taut as if to pretend that was how it always looked, then letting it fall, watching it gently collapse into wrinkles upon wrinkles. Her eyes, once bright and shining and copper, now a watery muddy brown begged for something to bring them alive. Cheryl wondered if Dr Frankenstein could do anything for her p*ssholes in the snow for eyes. They were deader than his monster.
She picked up the mascara wand, and dragged it over her short eyelashes, pulling them upwards, coating them repeatedly, till they looked like discarded spiders legs. She remembered fooling around with her girlfriends, some 40 years before, swapping make up and seeing who looked the best in red lipstick.
Cheryl missed being beautiful. She hated what she saw in the mirror. Having to apply a liberal coat of warpaint every day just to face the world, full of the harshest critics. Having to watch young girls parade around in next to nothing, with their taut young skin, bright shining eyes and shimmering hair.
She heard her husband call her. Was she ready? They had to leave shortly. Her stomach lurched. No amount of makeup was going to change things. She was old and she was ugly. But she had to do this, for Patrick.
Giving the mirror one last sneer she got up from the stool just as Patrick popped his head around the door.
'There's my supermodel' he grinned. 'Beautiful'. His smile lit up her heart. 'Come on then treacle. Let's go and retake our vows'.
'Just a minute Pat'. Cheryl looked back in the mirror. 'Let me just take some of this makeup off'.
She inspected her thinning hair, once golden, that had shimmered in the lights of the dance hall, circa 1952. Now salt and pepper, which basically meant 'patchy grey'.
She smoothed the powder compact sponge over her skin, pulling it taut as if to pretend that was how it always looked, then letting it fall, watching it gently collapse into wrinkles upon wrinkles. Her eyes, once bright and shining and copper, now a watery muddy brown begged for something to bring them alive. Cheryl wondered if Dr Frankenstein could do anything for her p*ssholes in the snow for eyes. They were deader than his monster.
She picked up the mascara wand, and dragged it over her short eyelashes, pulling them upwards, coating them repeatedly, till they looked like discarded spiders legs. She remembered fooling around with her girlfriends, some 40 years before, swapping make up and seeing who looked the best in red lipstick.
Cheryl missed being beautiful. She hated what she saw in the mirror. Having to apply a liberal coat of warpaint every day just to face the world, full of the harshest critics. Having to watch young girls parade around in next to nothing, with their taut young skin, bright shining eyes and shimmering hair.
She heard her husband call her. Was she ready? They had to leave shortly. Her stomach lurched. No amount of makeup was going to change things. She was old and she was ugly. But she had to do this, for Patrick.
Giving the mirror one last sneer she got up from the stool just as Patrick popped his head around the door.
'There's my supermodel' he grinned. 'Beautiful'. His smile lit up her heart. 'Come on then treacle. Let's go and retake our vows'.
'Just a minute Pat'. Cheryl looked back in the mirror. 'Let me just take some of this makeup off'.