Standard Movie Makeovers

Moss was having a hard time fitting in with these people. He had no idea what a diffuser was, or what acai was, or why everything in their apartment had to be white. But this luxury spa treatment at the stylist's had been nice, even though all he had to read was People magazine.

"I'm adding that curl definer now..." said his stylist. "This is going to look so good, don't you worry. You're gonna slay the day away."

"You're right," said Moss. "I will slay the day away." He looked down at the nail technician. "Thank you, Destiny. My cuticles look quite impressive."

In the other room, Imogene was having her own style consultation. She looked in the mirror, at the new feathery curls in her mahogany hair. There wasn't a strand out of place—just effortless, yet calculated waves, framed by her bangs, which covered her forehead in two nice sixties-style swoops. On rare occasions, maybe, she could be pretty.

"I've never had a blowout," she said.

"Does that look professional enough to you?" asked the stylist.

Imogene put her glasses back on. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."

"Well, don't put your glasses back on, hun. You need some makeup." "Oh!" Imogene laughed. "Sorry."

"Don't worry, this foundation has a nice blurring effect. That way we won't see some of these scars."

She was referring, of course, to her acne scars, but it still sent a pang of sadness through Imogene's soul. In a way, after everything that had happened, she felt scarred, like her heart would never be the same.

"That look good?" the stylist asked.

Imogene nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that's a nice match."

The stylist tilted Imogene's chin up with one hand. "Girl, you got some love bites."

Imogene turned beet red. "Oh yeah, could you cover those up, too?"

Henrietta had let her borrow some clothes. Imogene had decided on a cute business casual look, with a baby blue cardigan over a pink button-down shirt, a black belt, and a floral-printed skirt. Very in...maybe. She still didn't quite understand fashion.

When she came out of the dressing room, in her makeup and new outfit, the stylist moved her gently to a full-body mirror. Imogene put her glasses back on and saw that her figure was framed better than it had been by her bootleg jeans and saggy graphic tees. She'd never noticed that she had a nice waist, nice hips, nice shoulders...and gee whiz, a pair of nice boobs. Like the soon-to-be CEO she was, she tipped the stylist two hundred dollars and swung one of Henrietta's purses over her shoulder.

She almost forgot Moss was there when she came back into the waiting room. She'd paid for him to get his own style treatment, just to give him something to do. And indeed, he looked fabulous, in a tailored corduroy suit with a fun polka-dotted shirt underneath. It hugged his figure nicely, and accentuated his arms. When he saw her, his eyes grew wide, and he stood from his seat, awkwardly, and haphazardly buttoned his suit back up. Imogene's face went hot again, and she tucked some hair behind her ear.

"Hello," he said, swinging his arms at his sides. "I see you're done with your treatment."

"I see you're done with yours too," she said, not meeting his eyes.

So this is what it must mean, she thought, for somebody to be hot. She could barely look at him without blushing, or biting her lip, or thinking about what he looked like, well...under the suit.

"You look lovely," he shouted nervously.

Okay, now she was red-hot. She put a hand to her face—cold hands, hot face. That would have to help. Only it didn't, really.

"Sorry," Moss said quickly. "I meant to say that in a much more sensual tone. It's just that you're all pink and blue, like...candyfloss." His face fell. "And now I'm embarrassing myself. I'm embarrassing myself again. I'm so sorry. Now I've just compared you to food. I don't want to eat you. I can't remember if I already did. Oh, God. That was in public—"

"It's fine, it's fine. Let's just not..." Imogene collected herself, or attempted to. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I'm having trouble controlling...how red my face is."

"And I'm having trouble with the volume of my voice."

Moss fumbled with the button on his suit. He looked so stiff in it. She wished he would just relax. If only he could relax, then maybe she could, too.

Suddenly, Imogene remembered why they were here in the first place. "What time is it?"

Moss pointed to the clock. "Half-past eleven."

"Eleven-thirty? Ploppers!" Imogene whipped out her phone. "We have to get to Prophecy Electronics before noon!"