Chapter 1: Beauty Hurts
Did I do it? Was it enough? Was giving everything over to you, keeping up the game, promising to marry Peeta enough?
In answer, he gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
Katniss
Flavius entwines a single lock of my hair around his finger and quickly releases; it bounces back up as if it were living. The fact that my prep team is immensely soundless, with the exception of Octavia and her shaky exhales, is rather abnormal. Submerged in silence for what has felt like eternity, I have been able to narrow the motives down to two. One, they are so tangled up in the sentimentality of the event that they were left speechless. Or two, they are purely determined that I look my finest; the attentiveness temporarily muting them. Either way, and I'm quite sure it's both, I can't decide if I'm grateful or slightly dissatisfied. For on most occasions I pray for a moment of peace, a slight pause in their constant chattering. Yet today, above all, I was almost looking forward to the distraction. Though it's extremely irritating listening to their Capitol gossip, it certainly takes my mind of things. Like the day's agenda. Listening to them wail on about body jewelry and the shade of the month is almost comforting, ridiculous, but comforting. I find that in silence I begin to fret over things, make up outrageous outcomes to the day ahead. I find myself doing that right now.
Fortunately Venia's warm, dewy breath rouses me from my trance. I realize the need for lipstick, as I have become fairly familiar with the product, though I'd prefer if she applied it at a distance. After she has prudently painted my lips with the pale pink gloss she moves an inch closer, her nose almost brushing my cheek, as if to examine her work. I can feel my fists tighten, though I only let out a hefty exhale as she sashays away. My want to explode at the oblivious team quickly arises again, as one slowly plucks my eyebrows while another rhythmically yanks at my nails. After a few more minutes of this torturous procedure, my eyelids are screaming and my head fuzzy from the polish fumes. It's the last tug of hair that really makes me jerk. I know it's my own fault for not taking better care of my appearance, but this is ludicrous! I can feel a surge of heat run through my veins, boiling in my stomach. I needed to yell or throw something; I was aching to let off some steam. Conveniently, the moment I feel myself breaking, Cinna walks in. All the rage and heat evaporates immediately, leaving me more frustrated than before.
As my stylist strides closer, I become aware of what he is holding. I feel my stomach lurch; twist in a series of knots. That must be it.