"Oh dear, all these split ends," Flavius exclaims. "What have I told you about conditioning?" "Katniss, your nails! Why there's nothing left to them, honestly biting them doesn't do them a bit of good." "Oh heavens, your eyebrows!" No, I didn't miss having every inch of my body being critiqued this past year. I didn't miss it one, little bit. I think part of the reason they've fallen to their old areas of concern, however, is because they are trying to hide the sadness they feel about my scars. Time has allowed them to fade, and additional treatment finally allowed the skin grafts to resemble real skin, but it's probably as painfully obvious to them as it is to me, these people who probably know the details of my physicality as well I do, that I no longer have the flawless body the Capitol created after the 74th Games. I had literally become the girl on fire during the rebellion, and it's painfully apparent to us all when I'm sitting there in my short-sleeved shirt.

"No fancy make-up," I state firmly as they begin washing my hair and body. "But I thought we might-" "No. No nail polish, no fake eyelashes, no sparkles. Nothing." All three sigh dejectedly. I don't want to even begin imagining what sort of fright they wanted to turn me into. "The natural look we used for the propos will be just fine." Flavius makes as if to protest, but thinks better of it from the look I give him. A few minutes later, as their drying out my hair, "Katniss...what about just eyeliner? Just brown eyeliner, nothing fancy. Just enough to highlight your eyes? Please?" I sigh inwardly. "We can do that. As long as it's simple." Flavius beams like happy toddler. They're so simple really. It's difficult to stay annoyed with them when they can't help being how they are. Not only that, but they've certainly changed since I first met them. I think the Quarter Quell really started opening their eyes. Old habits die hard however, and Flavius is still one to enjoy lavish makeup, despite the slightly toned-down appearance they all have.

I don't let them take too long with making me look good, and not just because Haymitch said so. If it weren't for the fact that I hate being prepped, I'd make them take all day just to spite him. It's not simply because I don't want to spend all day in this bathroom, but I feel like their efforts are wasted. I'm no longer capable of being beautiful. Not with these scars, not with the kind of person I am. I've been told by everyone I need to stop blaming myself, that I am doing myself an injustice, that I can't live like this, that these scars are honorable. Some days I believe them, and I will tell myself the same thing, but other days I lapse and can't get all the dead faces out of my head. Thankfully, those days occur considerably less than they used to. Giving people the wrong impression of who I am isn't something I want to be doing, and I simply don't feel like making me look glamorous is honest. These thoughts would probably get me a long lecture on why I shouldn't think like that from Peeta, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Two hours later, I'm standing in front of the mirror in a slip, my hair done up in a curly bun. The morning light spilling pouring through my bedroom window is warm against my skin as I stand there waiting. Venia had led the others out once they were finished with me, and I had been instructed to wait here while they fetched my dress. My protests that I would much rather wear one of my simple dresses were immediately shot down. "Trust me, you'll want to wear this dress," she had stated, not really meeting my eye when she did. So I gave up and just stood there, inspecting their work while waiting for her to come back. They had done a good job using some sort of liquid foundation to blend most of the scars in with the rest of my skin, and I was absentmindedly toying with a loose curl they had left down when my ears caught the sound of someone's quiet tread on the steps. Then my bedroom door was opened, slowly at first, as if the person was hesitant to come in. Carrying a garment bag, in stepped my mother.

Glancing at me shyly, she set the bag on my bed, carefully unzipping it. "This was made for you along with the gowns for the photo shoot. Cinna kept it apart from the others though, it wasn't fancy enough to be used, but he felt it was what fit you the most. He hid it away here, if you ever should get the opportunity and wanted to use it." My breath catches in my throat at the mention of my stylist, my wonderful, stupidly brave stylist, who made me the Girl on Fire, the Mockingjay. I look down to the dress, and cannot help but smiling a little. Despite having been someone from the Capitol, Cinna understood me so well, sometimes I think more than I do myself. The dress that my mother has brought to me is extremely simple, satin with smooth outlines, short sleeves, a high scoop-neck, with a length that reaches mid-calf. Unlike the other gowns, this one is not ivory or white, but is instead a creamy, light grey. The same color as mockingjay chick down, I think to myself without even realizing it. It's still a mockingjay wedding dress. I can never truly lose that identity, but this dress isn't something symbolic, to convey a message. It's simply meant to be worn by me, nothing more. I can think of no better way to thank Cinna for everything he did for me, saving my skin in so many ways, than to wear this dress today. "Will you help me get it on?" I ask quietly. She gives a hint of a smile and nods, murmuring, "Put your arms up Katniss."