Ana. But she goes by Anastasia, at least on Facebook. Her hair is the black that artists think of when painting the darkest of scenes, and it's the kind that is apparently the new pink. Eyebrows smoothed meticulously in a 10-magnification mirror, nails beautified, circled and flat, lashes winged out, rivaling her black irises, starless. Her lashes threaten to lift up and up and up but not off, because they’re not false, they’re just coated. And if she cries, you would be the last to know; thank goodness for Maybelline waterproof. Her persona is picture-esque: glare-free, shineless, matte.
But, beneath the pore-less brushed skin she is untamable. Her movements flick sharply, irregularly, her nail patterns wild. Her starless eyes well up more than anyone realizes and her hair, inky, craves to be pink. Yet you would never know. She knows though. Her skin, mint, her eyes, flat, her emotions, toneless. Except her lips.
Her lips change shade, but not color. Sangria for when her lashes lift higher and even higher for a night out. Carnation for when it snows. Coral for when her hair yearns extra more to be pink, Cherry for when her boyfriend visits, and Tango for when it’s Senior Portrait Day. My favorite shade though, if my opinion matters, is when Anastasia’s shade gives her away to be Ana: an absurd, glossy red. Absurd, burlesque Gloss for when life feels conquerable. And when she wears Gloss, not matte, she’s the Ana I hope Anastasia hopes to be.
