Lipstick Apology Read Online Free PDF Page A

airbrushing. One look at that sad display and I had buried my head in the pillows and didn’t set foot on the front porch again for three months.
    How was it that Jolie thought my first venture back into society should be at a fancy spa? There was too much exposure, too much vulnerability.
    I was half naked, bent over with my head in my hands when Ming returned to find me in full-on panic mode, taking deep breaths.
    I felt her cool fingers on my shoulder and looked up, dazed. Ming’s angular face softened. She helped me ease out of my top and wrapped the robe around me. Then, as fast as her kindness came, it was gone and she was back to business. She turned and walked toward the door. She paused and said, “Are you coming?”
    After ninety minutes of being poked at, scrubbed, scalded, wrapped, and soaked, Jolie and I were finally reunited in the Pedicure Parlor, where we were seated on an elevated bench.
    â€œTake off your shoes, please,” the nail technician said to me.
    Jolie plunked her feet into the tiled sink filled with sudsy water.
    â€œUm.” I panicked. “My feet are a little . . .”
    â€œWe see it all,” the technician snapped, and reached for my slippers. In a flash, my feet were plunged into the water. I let the bubble suds foam up and hide my toes.
    Jolie looked over at me, her face serious. “You know, after almost two hours of meditation, I’ve had an epiphany.”
    Here it comes, I thought. The sermon about life and death, family and moving on, accepting new roles and new directions . . . I inhaled slowly.
    She began. “I think there comes a time in every woman’s life when miniskirts are no longer an option.” She pulled her robe up slightly and observed her thighs. “I like my legs. But still, a woman at a certain age can’t get away with creeping hemlines.”
    I looked at her. “Trent?”
    She nodded, grinning at me and rolling her eyes. It was possibly the first real smile I’d seen on her all summer. “He busted me yesterday for that blue outfit—he told me I was one pin curl away from looking like Blanche from The Golden Girls —you know, not dressing age appropriately.”
    â€œBlanche is like double your age,” I said.
    â€œYeah, but the point is I’m not sixteen anymore.”
    â€œSixteen sucks,” I said.
    Jolie smirked. “So, have you picked a color yet for your toes? Because the new night neutral from Chanel is really hot right now.”
    I thought about how Jolie’s life revolved around fashion trends and makeup and how she just assumed I would be comfortable with that too. “Okay,” I said. “That color is fine.”
    The technician came back, dried off my feet, and placed them on a towel. Did she just smirk? I clenched my fists. She pulled out two pink spongy toe dividers and began to wrestle the contraption between my toes. She definitely laughed. I will kill Jolie, I thought. But Jolie was oblivious, reading Vogue .
    After no success, the technician used scissors to cut off one of the dividers and just let my two toes stay curled into each other. My face was flaming for pretty much the entire procedure.
    When our polish was dry, we took a cab uptown. Boutique awnings fluttered along Lexington Avenue. As we pulled up in front of a store with silky nighties hanging on display and I felt the tacky nail polish stick to my socks, I knew this was round two of the day of mortification.
    Jolie opened the glass door and a ding-ding announced our arrival. A silver-haired woman dressed in a peach suit scuffled over.
    â€œWe have an appointment for Emily to be fitted for some bras.” Jolie nodded toward me.
    Appointment? Who ever heard of making an appointment for bras?
    â€œWell,” the peach suit lady said. “I’m your fit specialist, and,” she pointed to a gold-plated name tag, “my name is Emily too.” She reached up for the tape