Getting Lucky in MayNicole Steinberg
I’ve started stealing from my roommate: Guatemalan flip-flops, big-beauty pearls, caftans, and intriguing lash gadgets. She’s an English willow, a tiny, tiny tulip descended from Debbie Harry and the Mona Lisa—someone who bolts for the newest It Bag. I never deep-condition; my hair is a bale of peroxide-fried hay, my body an unscientific hourglass—red, white and blotched all over. To carve out the Single White Female transformation, I don’t need medieval slicers and dicers. A gun is much, much lighter: crisp and idiot-proof, without the soul-crushing effect. It’s glam, but not like you’ve tried too hard—voila, no messy streaks.
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