The Makeover

Craig had had hundreds of haircuts in his life. They had always been among the simplest things a person could do. Walk into a barber shop. Ask if they could take a walk-in. Sit down. Wait a few minutes. Snip, snip. A little conversation if the barber was chatty, silence if he wasn't. Ten or fifteen minutes later, Craig would be back on the street with hair that was shorter and an appointment he'd hopefully remember to make again in a few months.

Simple.

Easy.

Fast.

This was anything but.

The pink salon chair was absurdly comfortable. That was the first problem. Craig sank into the padded seat while Gerald adjusted it with effortless precision, raising him until he sat at the proper height before fastening a black protective cape around his shoulders. The fabric covered most of his chest and fell neatly over his lap, leaving only his head and hands exposed.

"Comfortable?" Gerald asked.

"Unfortunately."

Gerald chuckled.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Craig thought he'd pass the time by staring at his reflection's outline in the mirror. Except he couldn't actually see his reflection. Gerald had positioned the chair at an angle, and Craig's head was turned away from the mirror. That seemed intentional.

"You're not going to let me see what you're doing?"

"Not yet."

"Why?"

"Because the reveal is part of the experience."

Of course it was. Craig had already learned that when a magical being told him something was "part of the experience", it generally meant he was going to have to endure something ridiculous before he was allowed to understand what had happened. Was Gerald magical? Craig wasn't sure, but the idea that his office would suddenly be transformed into an upscale salon made him think he was. Either way, his situation wasn't normal.

Gerald began with his hair. Craig wasn't entirely sure what was happening. There were brushes. Combs. Sprays. A soft towel. Something cool was worked into his scalp, followed by something warm. Fingers moved through his hair with careful, methodical strokes, separating sections and smoothing them into place. Every so often Gerald would step back, study his work, then return to adjust some tiny detail.

The whole process was far too involved for a haircut.

Craig had no idea what Gerald was doing, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.

"How long is this going to take?"

"Patience."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

Gerald continued working. Craig felt the tug of a comb moving through his hair, followed by the gentle pressure of fingers gathering sections together. Something brushed the back of his neck. A clip clicked into place.

None of it hurt. That was almost disappointing. Craig wanted something about the experience to justify his anger. Some discomfort. Some obvious violation. Something he could point to and say, See? This is horrible.

Instead, his scalp was being massaged. It felt wonderful, irritating him enormously.

Then Gerald began working on his face.

"Close your eyes for me."

Craig did. A soft brush swept across his cheek. Powder. Another brush. Something cool was dabbed beneath his eyes.

Craig remained still as Gerald worked with the concentration of someone restoring a priceless painting. Every new sensation made Craig more aware of his own face. A brush moved over his forehead. A sponge pressed gently against his cheeks. Something soft traced beneath his eyes. Another brush touched his eyelids.

"This is ridiculous," Craig muttered.

"What's ridiculous?"

"All of this."

Gerald kept working.

"You don't like being pampered?"

"No."

A pause.

"You do seem to be relaxing."

Craig opened his mouth. Closed it again. His body had betrayed him. There was no other way to describe it.

A month ago, he would never have imagined enjoying this. Having someone fuss over him, carefully applying makeup while he sat helplessly in a salon chair, would have sounded embarrassing at best.

Now?

The brush touched his cheek again. Craig nearly sighed. He caught himself.

No.

He didn't like this. He hated being forced into it. He hated that Thalia had decided how he was spending his day without asking him. He hated that Gerald was doing something to his body that he would never have chosen. Most of all, he hated that there was no part of this process he could actually stop. The gods had given him no meaningful choice.

And yet...

The brush moved beneath his eye in slow, careful strokes.

...it felt good.

Damn it.

Craig sat motionless. He tried to focus on the anger. That was safer. Anger was familiar. Anger reminded him that he hadn't chosen this. But the warmth of the office, the comfortable chair, the soft movements against his skin and the faint clean scent of cosmetics floating through the air were steadily wearing down his resistance.

"You're going to look beautiful," Gerald said casually.

Craig frowned.

Gerald smiled.

"You have excellent taste. All we're doing is rounding out your look."

"What?"

"Your outfit. It's darling, but it's only part of the picture."

Craig looked down as much as the cape allowed.

Gerald sounded completely sincere.

"The red skirt. The black top. The gold hoops. The boots. Everything works together."

Craig blushed.

"I didn't pick it because I thought it worked together," he lied. "I picked it at random. I don't care how I look."

"But you picked it," Gerald teased. "And you look fabulous."

Craig had no answer for that. Because it was true.

He had stood in his bedroom that morning and looked through the wardrobe. He had considered hiding beneath something loose and shapeless. He had thought about reaching for anything that made him feel closer to the man he'd been.

Instead, his hand had gone to the red skirt. Not because Thalia had forced him. Not because Eros had compelled him. But because he'd wanted it. He'd wanted to wear it, to feel it on his body, to be seen in it. And as much as he wished that Gerald wasn't right, and as much as he could deny it out loud, inside Craig knew it to be true.

The conversation gradually faded. Gerald stopped talking except to give the occasional instruction.

"Chin up."

"Eyes closed."

"Look left."

"Hold still."

The rest was the sound of brushes and combs, the occasional click of a tool, and the faint clink of bottles being moved around the vanity.

At one point Gerald offered champagne. Craig declined. A few minutes later, Gerald offered again.

Craig accepted.

The glass was placed carefully into his hand, and Craig took a small sip. It was cold and sweet. The warmth that followed seemed to loosen another knot inside him.

Eventually, Craig stopped trying to guess what Gerald was doing. He stopped imagining the worst. He stopped trying to listen for every sound. He simply sat there. The chair supported his back. The room was warm. Gerald's hands moved carefully and confidently.

For a while, that uncertainty stopped mattering. Worrying about it wasn't doing anything to help him, so Craig let his mind wander somewhere else.

Frank.

The name appeared in his thoughts almost immediately. Craig wondered what his best friend was doing. Probably working. Probably complaining about something. Probably thinking about his mother and Bill.

Normally, Craig would have seen him after work. Sometimes Frank would even swing by and give him a ride home.

At home together, they would have ordered dinner, watched something stupid on television and spent the evening arguing about absolutely nothing. Frank had always been there. Even when they annoyed each other, even when one of them had a bad day, having Frank across the apartment meant Craig never had to wonder whether someone would be there when he got home.

Now Frank lived across the hall. Close enough to see. Far enough to feel gone.

Craig knew Frank hadn't changed in his own mind. Their friendship was still there. Frank still treated him like his best friend. They still went bowling. They still hung out.

But the ordinary life they'd shared had disappeared.

Craig missed it. He missed coming home from the warehouse. Missed the bus ride. Missed complaining about customers, supervisors and everything else that had seemed important before Eros. Missed knowing what tomorrow was supposed to look like. A normal evening had once been incredibly easy to define.

Dinner.

Television.

Frank.

Sleep.

Repeat.

Now there were streaming obligations. Magical appointments. A bizarre management position. Pole dancing lessons. A wardrobe full of clothes Craig never would have bought. A body that had become increasingly comfortable with things his old self would have found ridiculous.

Lingerie.

Dresses.

Heels.

Ugh.

Craig opened his eyes. Gerald was still working. He closed them again.

Maybe Frank was doing all right. Maybe he'd figured out what to do about Bill. Maybe he had stopped worrying about his mother.

Craig hoped so. The thought of Frank struggling while Craig was trapped in this bizarre reality made something heavy settle in his chest. There was no way to help him. There was barely a way to help himself.

Gerald's hands continued moving through his hair. Craig relaxed again. He could feel the warmth of the chair beneath him. The faint weight of makeup on his skin. The cool trace of lipstick. The pleasant scent of whatever Gerald had used in his hair.

It was pampering. There was no other word for it. And Craig liked being pampered. That admission was going to bother him later.

He could reconcile his feelings later.

For now, he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy it. He'd spent enough time fighting things he couldn't stop. Five minutes of peace wouldn't kill him.

Probably.

Hopefully.

A little while later, Gerald suddenly stepped back.

"There!"

Craig opened his eyes. Gerald smiled broadly.

"A masterpiece. Voilà!"

With a theatrical flourish, he unclipped the cape and swept it away. Craig blinked. Gerald placed both hands on the back of the chair.

"Ready?"

Craig had absolutely no idea.

"Ready for what?"

"The reveal."

Before Craig could object, Gerald spun the chair around. Craig's reflection appeared in the mirror.

For several seconds, he simply stared.

It was still him. His face was still unmistakably Craig's. But everything had been taken several steps further than anything he'd ever managed on his own.

His eyebrows were perfectly shaped. His skin looked smooth and even. Blush brought subtle colour to his cheeks. Eyeshadow framed his eyes. Eyeliner gave them a sharper definition. His eyelashes looked longer and fuller. His lips were painted a rich red that matched the skirt he'd chosen that morning.

Craig stood.

The person in the mirror stood with him.

Beautiful.

There was no kinder way to describe it. Craig had no idea how Gerald had managed it, but the man staring back at him looked like someone who belonged in a fashion magazine, not someone who had spent the last several years working in a warehouse.

Craig touched his cheek.

He liked it.

He loved it.

The realisation landed harder than any of the cosmetics had.

"I look..."

He couldn't finish. Gerald's smile widened.

"Beautiful."

Craig looked at himself again. He hated that Gerald was right.

Then he noticed the hair. His familiar short brown haircut was gone. In its place was long blonde hair. Not just blonde. Long, thick blonde hair arranged into an elaborate updo that looked like it belonged to royalty.

Craig reached toward it. His fingers stopped just short.

"What in the..."

Gerald beamed.

"Isn't it fabulous?"

Craig slowly turned towards him.

"You dyed my hair."

"Technically?"

Gerald gave a little shrug.

"No."

Craig's stomach dropped.

"Then what did you do?"

"Your hair is blonde now."

"I noticed."

"Naturally blonde."

Craig stared.

"Naturally?"

Gerald nodded.

"The magic takes care of that."

Craig touched one of the blonde curls. It felt real. Too real.

"What happens when it grows back?"

"It won't."

Craig looked at him.

"Won't what?"

Gerald smiled sweetly.

"Grow back the way it used to."

Craig's hand dropped.

"What does that mean?"

The man only smiled.

"Don't worry," Gerald said, not giving Craig any confidence. "Your hair knows what it's supposed to be now. Beautiful. Elegant. It will always want to look beautiful."

Craig stared at himself in the mirror. He didn't like the sound of that. Not at all. He had spent the entire morning reminding himself that he hadn't chosen any of this. Now even his hair apparently had its own opinions.

"Wait."

Gerald began tidying his tools.

"How long does this last?"

"Last?" Gerald smiled as he answered. "This isn't an effect, sweetie. This is you. From now on, you don't have to worry about beauty. Beauty will take care of you."

Gerald picked up the champagne glass.

"You should head inside."

"Inside?"

"The office," Gerald nodded his head toward the wooden door. "Your boss wanted to be the first to see the big reveal."

Craig looked towards Daniel's office. The door remained closed, but suddenly felt like it was looming over him.

Craig turned back towards the mirror. For one last second, he studied the person looking back at him.

Beautiful.

Polished.

Feminine.

Completely unlike the man he'd been.

And yet still Craig. Somewhere beneath the makeup and the blonde hair, the same tired man was still standing there. Craig drew a slow breath.

"Fantastic."

Gerald smiled.

"I agree."

Craig forced himself to smile back.

Then he straightened his shoulders, picked up his purse, and walked towards Daniel Mercer's office to show his boss what had been done to him.