The makeover

Zoe's POV

"Trust the process."

I’ve heard a lot of people say that, but it was a phrase we never used in medical school. There, we wielded the process, monitored it every step of the way: systems into organs, organs into tissues, tissues into cells. We dissected every situation, sign by symptom. We did not ‘trust the process.’ We made the process trust us.

Yet, when Rachel asked me to ‘trust the process,’ I surrendered myself into her care.

“Alright,” she announced, dragging the single word out for almost four seconds. “You can open your eyes now”.

My lashes fluttered against each other before I pulled them apart and opened my eyes.

“Oh my goodness! What did you do?” I asked in horror.

The girl staring back at me in the mirror could definitely not be me.

“I did a makeover for your hair, darling. It’s now time for your face. Close your eyes again, darling,” Rachel ordered, then popped her gum four times while she said the words. But because she called me "darling" twice—compared to the zero times anyone in my family had called me that—I did what a person who was a true darling would do and obeyed.

The next hour was filled with a series of orders from Rachel.

“Bend your head.”

“Open your eyes.”

“Look left… oh, sorry, look right.”

“Hold your breath.”

“Smile.”

“Yesss. Good girl”.

And somehow, my bad day began to turn into a good day. Time flew, and I didn’t want whatever she was doing on my face to stop. Ever.

“I’m done, darling. Open your eyes.”

My eyes refused to open.

“Trust me, darling, open your eyes,” Rachel encouraged.

I obeyed. “Oh my God!”

“Don’t you dare cry and ruin your makeup, darling,” Rachel threatened.

“Is that me?” I pointed at the mirror. It was my very first time wearing makeup, and I smelled like flowers were blooming from inside of me.

“Yes, darling. It is you.” Rachel stared at me. “Fuck! I’m jealous. But I need to see how far this can go”.

Rachel said no more. The next thing I knew, she was turning the sign on her shop, and then she pulled me to a store next door.

“You have the fullest, sexiest brown hair I’ve ever seen. We have to find something that complements it, and I know just the right piece. I was window shopping yesterday and I found it.” Rachel beamed. She was so excited she forgot to pop her gum. “Try this one, darling”.

I should have figured out by now that Rachel was intentionally calling me "darling" to make me do whatever she liked, but I loved it too much to care. It was the highlight of the whole thing.

It was a blue dress with yellow roses all over it. I owned nothing of the sort; all my clothes were single-colored and plain.

“I knew it had to be perfect. I just knew it,” Rachel beamed happily.

An hour later, I was still in my sundress and with Rachel. Together, we walked the streets of Vancouver, eating ice cream which we bought from a roadside stall.

I, Zoe Adams, was eating on the street. A first.

“Shouldn’t you be at your salon?” I asked Rachel. She seemed so carefree.

“Well, I do whatever I want. I own the place,” she shrugged.

I wanted to ask if she didn’t have a target to meet, or if she had no one to report to, but I held my tongue; I should not ask questions to make her uncomfortable.

“Are you still a student or are you done?” I asked. That should be a comfortable subject.

Rachel shook her head. “I didn’t further my education. I always knew I wanted to do hair, so I got a practice certificate. Formal education would be of no use to me,” she explained.

At that moment, I knew I had met an angel. The true epitome of freedom, she had the life I dreamed of.

“Wow.”

“You’re really pretty. You know that, right?” Rachel asked me.

I only laughed. “You did not think me pretty when I walked into your salon earlier today. I’m not pretty, it’s all the powder you stuffed on my face,” I told her.

I would gladly accept and love being called ‘darling,’ but I would not let her delude me into thinking I was pretty. I spent seven years in med school; never once had a guy asked me out. Even girls did not want to be my friend. There was this girl that everyone knew to be plain and not so pretty, but she had dated four different guys before our seven years were up.

Rachel stared at me but said nothing to argue. “Have you ever left Canada?” she asked me.

I shook my head. “Not really. I have left Canada twice, but it doesn’t count because I was stuck in the hospital all through,” I explained.

“Do you like what you do? Saving people’s lives?” she asked me.

It was funny that even my family had never asked me that. “I’m good at it,” I told her.

“I asked if you liked it, not if you were good at it,” Rachel pressed.

“I might have, but I do not, because I was not given a choice,” I replied honestly.

I would not deny that sometimes I found happiness in saving someone’s life, or helping a woman deliver, but my mom also took that from me when she did not let me major in pediatric health.

“What if you had a choice?” Rachel asked.

I didn’t answer her. “It’s almost evening. You should go back to your salon; I need to go back to my dorm. I don’t think we’ll ever do this again, but I appreciate you a lot for today. I won’t forget you for a very long time”.

I chose my mom’s style and turned back, letting myself have the last word. But Rachel was not me; she still spoke.

“Goodbye, darling! I wish you all the best!”.

Her voice was so cheerful that tears coated my eyes. I walked faster; the tears blocked my vision, and my movement became unsteady. I would have fallen down if two strong arms had not steadied me to my feet.

I wiped my eyes before I looked up to meet his gaze, but I was yet to see him clearly when his words greeted my ears: “Mama Mia. Where have you been all my life?”.