She takes a seat at the large vanity. It was something she'd found and salvaged and made new - and it's become a daily part of her careful routine.
She takes the brush and runs it through her hair, before wrapping it in a tight up-do. It still lets her hair part in the front and hang just so on her forehead that it covers the white - whiter than her skin - scar from a bullet so long ago.
A medium sized jar of a pinkish-white paste is in the right drawer, and she pulls that out. She sticks two fingers into it, scooping up a small amount before spreading it over her hands. It's a homemade concoction she created ages ago to keep her skin soft and blemish-free, and as she spreads it over any of pale, exposed skin it leaves a cool sensation. She puts it back in the drawer before grabbing a pair of tweezers - stolen from Camp Forlorn Hope and never returned - and starts meticulously attending to her eyebrows. She strives for perfection, wanting it - craving it. And she'll take as long as she needs to till she's satisfied she's achieved it.
However, today is quick and painless, and she continues with the rest of her daily beauty regiment. It's simple after that. First, a light dusting of blush. She's got naturally thick eyelashes, and she finds that mascara and other eye make up is unnecessary. And rare. And expensive. And entirely not worth it.
Finally, she pulls out a small jar of a red lip dye. Another invention of hers - hell, her knowledge of science has its uses. Creating lipstick seems to be one of them. She dabs her index finger into the dye, before bringing her finger to her lower lip. She watches herself in the mirror carefully, her face close enough that it almost fogs up the glass. It doesn't. She spreads the dye over the plump skin of her lips, applying enough to last her the day.
She slowly smacks her lips - without the obnoxious noise. God no. Just the motion of it. - and flashes herself an award winning smile.
the lady from the mojave [1b/1]
She takes the brush and runs it through her hair, before wrapping it in a tight up-do. It still lets her hair part in the front and hang just so on her forehead that it covers the white - whiter than her skin - scar from a bullet so long ago.
A medium sized jar of a pinkish-white paste is in the right drawer, and she pulls that out. She sticks two fingers into it, scooping up a small amount before spreading it over her hands. It's a homemade concoction she created ages ago to keep her skin soft and blemish-free, and as she spreads it over any of pale, exposed skin it leaves a cool sensation. She puts it back in the drawer before grabbing a pair of tweezers - stolen from Camp Forlorn Hope and never returned - and starts meticulously attending to her eyebrows. She strives for perfection, wanting it - craving it. And she'll take as long as she needs to till she's satisfied she's achieved it.
However, today is quick and painless, and she continues with the rest of her daily beauty regiment. It's simple after that. First, a light dusting of blush. She's got naturally thick eyelashes, and she finds that mascara and other eye make up is unnecessary. And rare. And expensive. And entirely not worth it.
Finally, she pulls out a small jar of a red lip dye. Another invention of hers - hell, her knowledge of science has its uses. Creating lipstick seems to be one of them. She dabs her index finger into the dye, before bringing her finger to her lower lip. She watches herself in the mirror carefully, her face close enough that it almost fogs up the glass. It doesn't. She spreads the dye over the plump skin of her lips, applying enough to last her the day.
She slowly smacks her lips - without the obnoxious noise. God no. Just the motion of it. - and flashes herself an award winning smile.
Perfect.
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