An hour later, I find myself sitting at Celeste’s vanity, my hair cascading down my back in layers of curls.
“Perfect!” she exclaims, her bright eyes locking with mine in the mirror as she carefully runs a fine-tooth comb through my locks.
“It’s so shiny,” I marvel, hardly recognizing my own hair—it’s never looked this healthy. “How did you do that?”
“Well, I—” Celeste places the brush down, only to knock off a nest of items from her messy vanity. It’s cluttered with a variety of makeup and jewelry, and the chaos doesn’t end there.
Her bedroom is a dazzling disaster.
The walls are adorned with glossy magazine cutouts and posters of her favorite runway models. Clothes drape over every possible surface—chairs, the bed, even the floor—designer labels peeking out from the haphazard piles.
