holidays in the sun .

[avi marciela walker]

Her hair looked like a fucking poodle.

Blonde, puffy and curled to the extreme, it rose away from her forehead at least two inches before settling backwards into a long wave down the back of her spine. Avi stared skeptically into the mirror, one pale eyebrow raised as she glanced at the horrifically messy mop on top of her skull, and slowly back to the stylist. “It's what the photographer requested, Avi. Not my fucking problem, okay? Don't give me that look.” and he turned on his salvatore ferragamo encased heel, leaving her to sit impatiently while the team of makeup artists finished her off. “That can't possibly be all mine,” she stated bluntly, running a hand through her teased locks, licking her lips when she realized that half of it was synthetic. “Did they get it from a dog?” it wasn't a real question but the makeup artist laughed anyway, tossing her own glossy black strands over her shoulder. Of course. Perfect skin, perfect hair, model skinny. Why wasn't she the one getting teased into a coma? It didn't seem like it made sense when in comparison Avi was merely a clone of a million other girls. Parting her lips slightly so the woman could paint on the pale pink, she closed her eyes and felt the edge of a pencil lining her lids, very carefully, so as not to poke her in the eye. An injury would fuck the whole thing up. Hands outstretched to the sides, she noted the vague tingling sensation as they brushed nailpolish over them, and then again the small giggle that erupted at her spidelike state. Reed-thin, she had everything but her feet stretched out, her head tilted back and her lips parted for the makeup artist there, while someone else worked on her eyes. There was someone massaging oils into her shoulders and arms so they'd shine on film, and someone taking blotter paper to her forehead to make sure no grease appeared there. On top of all that, there would inevitably be too much photoshop afterwars; the only thing they continuously booked her for was the lack of weight they needed to talk about. She told everyone it was around one hundred and ten, and that would be underweight for her height, but it was really more like ninety eight, now. Her hair was falling out and her spine was sticking through her clothes; she was a walking skeleton, but it was a requirement of the job. “Don't go snorting lines again as soon as we get finished,” one of them chided, but she didn't open her eyes to see who it was. “Cause you'll screw this up and then you have to sit for longer.” she frowned impulsively and someone gasped, the feeling of a pen tip slid over her mouth. They yelled but she didn't listen; she was too far gone for that bullshit.

Bracelets clinking down her wrists as she made her way through the streets of new york, Avi swallowed back a chunk of the piece of bread she had allotted for the day and tossed her poodle-like hair back over her shoulders. She'd be looked for a spigot if she thought she could find and use one without getting bitched at the in the warehouse district, but the chances of that were slim. She'd done it once a couple of years ago and immediately after run into someone she didn't really want to see, blonde hair dripping down her back and leaving impressions in the silk dress she was wearing, the only one she'd had at the time. That had ended badly, frankly, and she didn't exactly feel like reliving the misery that had come from it. Instead she'd just make her way through life on step at a time, and first things first was getting back to long island. Taking another chunk of the piece of bread off between her teeth, she made sure it was thoroughly chewed before swallowing – allowing more time in between swallows meant she'd fill up faster and less calories would be consumed, which meant she'd get to keep her job longer. Hand absently falling over her stomach, she pulled a cigarette out of the back pocket of the shortest shorts humanity had yet to make, and slipped it between her lips, cheap heels clicking against the new york streets as she lit it up. It would be so easy to just stay here again. To just live in the city like she'd been doing since she was fifteen years old. She hated Long Island, in reality, and would do anything to go back, but she knew that it was what was best for herself at the time and believe it or not, that made a relatively large impact on her decisions.

An hour later, she was home. She'd hailed a cab and taken it directly from the mouth of the bridge to the island, straight to the park. It was by far too easy to stray away from eating when you didn't bother much with things like going home. She had what? Six or seven hours until she actually had to get up, so it didn't matter. Three in the morning. An hour run, an hour for getting ready and then she had to be at the shoot tomorrow at five. Such a busy schedule, but she had no idea if she'd rather be doing that or sitting around and getting fat. Taking another cigarette out of the bag, she crossed one long, slender leg over the other and shook her head, somewhat placated by the knowledge that life wasn't coming to an end. Not yet.

tagged: tisse.
click for outfit.

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