Third person pov
The smell of burnt sugar hairspray and expensive foundation was thick enough to choke the strongest of men. Priscilla’s bedroom, usually a model of minimalist luxury, had been transformed into a mini makeover studio for prom. Different dresses in shades of champagne, emerald, and midnight blue hung from the crown molding like silk banners.
“If you touch that curling iron to my forehead one more time, Anna, I’m going to the dance with a third-degree burn,” Sarah joked from where she was perched dangerously on the edge of a vanity stool, squinting through a cloud of shimmer spray.
Anna didn't flinch. “Beauty is pain, Sarah. Do you want to look like you walked out of a magazine, or do you want to look like you did your hair in a wind tunnel?”
“The first one,” Sa
