Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,77
no big deal, even if said friend was one of the hottest men I’d ever seen in my life. No big deal, really.
“All right, all right,” I said. “Yes, I have a date, and I imagine I can use all the prep time I can get.”
His gaze moved over me, cataloging my features, and I now wished I had bothered to style my hair or slap on some makeup.
“Nah.” Jason turned his head and looked out at the city when he said, “You look perfect to me just as you are.”
With that, he rose and went into my apartment and retrieved his carry-on. This time he exited out my front door to go to his place. With an abrupt wave from him, the door closed and he was gone.
I stared after him, wondering what that had been about. Had Knightley actually been sweet to me? I understood that we had a lot riding on the Severin campaign, and I knew he was probably grateful for my help, but still, that had been a really kind thing to say, and I didn’t know how to reconcile it with the guy who had once announced “Not my circus, not my freak” in regards to working with me during a staff meeting.
Maybe the wine and cheese and Paris were mellowing the man or me. I decided not to analyze it too closely. I’d just be grateful we were a united front for dinner with Severin tomorrow instead of our default setting of bickering like siblings.
With that decided, I grabbed my purse and headed down to the café. Zoe had said she would walk me to the salon. With a glance in the mirror, I had to acknowledge there was work to be done here.
* * *
• • • •
WHEN ZOE SAID she knew the perfect beautician, she wasn’t exaggerating. Which was how I found myself being plucked, primped, powdered, and polished down to a molecular level at a salon where the stylist, Estelle, did not make small talk but rather fixed me with an impersonal and terrifying stare, with which she assessed what was required to make this American lump—at least, that was what I assumed she considered me—into a cosmopolitan woman worthy of their fair city.
Estelle took charge of my transformation, not asking about my preferences or style or personality but rather focusing on working with what I had to offer, which clearly did not impress her overmuch.
“Your eyes are too close together,” she said. “Your upper lip is not even.”
I blinked at my reflection in the mirror. No one had ever mentioned these defects to me before. My head was covered in foil, as Estelle had tsked repeatedly at my natural color. Now she was holding my face by the chin and turning my head from side to side, considering how she could make this random collection of features alluring. The expression on her face, one of intense concentration, made it clear she considered it a daunting task. So my self-esteem was rocking.
“You have excellent skin,” Estelle said. Her English was very precise. “We begin.”
Time ceased to have any meaning. I was ushered from one chair to the next. Creams, potions, and gels were applied and removed. I spent more time turned away from the mirror or with my eyes closed than I did watching the progress of my transformation. When Estelle finally finished blowing out my hair and retouching my makeup, I felt as if I were a snake who’d been forced to shed its skin. Everything tingled, and I was aware of parts of my face and body I’d never noticed before. I sincerely hoped I wasn’t about to drop the equivalent of a down payment on a new car on having someone make me look like a tart. That wasn’t what I was going for here.
Estelle stepped back and examined me from different angles. She reached up and tousled my newly highlighted and trimmed hair, and then she nodded.
“Oui, oui, you will do,” she announced. She spun my chair so that I faced the mirror. My jaw dropped.
“I . . . oh . . . well . . . wow,” I stammered. I straight-up did not recognize the woman staring back at me.
For the first time all day, Estelle smiled. It was a small smile—just the corners of her lips moved, in an upward trajectory of about a centimeter—but it was a smile. Her voice was pleased when she said, “Ravissant, oui?”