Rhea POV:
Alright, so here we are—two days before the interview—and I'm starting to question every life decision that led me here. I had just dropped a ridiculous amount of money on a suit (the most basic one I could find, because apparently, men's clothes are way more expensive than women's), men's shoes, and some cheap wristwatch (The kind that screams "I'm not a millionaire, but I'm pretending to be one) And don't even get me started on the whole cross-dressing kit Lucy was building for me. The stuff I had to buy? Absolutely not cheap. Men's clothing is overpriced, even at thrift shops. Like, come on, I was practically paying rent just for the shoes!
So, I walk into the apartment, expecting to find Lucy doing her usual thing—tapping away on her laptop, probably writing some ridiculous novella about her imaginary CEO. But no. This time, Lucy had completely transformed the living room into what I could only describe as a mad scientist's laboratory.
There was no couch anymore. That thing had been shoved to the side like a piece of garbage. The table was perched on top of it. And the floor? Well, it had been covered in some kind of plastic sheet, like she was preparing to butcher me for parts. I wasn't even sure what was going on, but I knew one thing: this was going to get messy.
"Good, you're here!" Lucy greeted me, her eyes wide with excitement. "Hurry up, we need to create the face so it can dry and I colour it before the interview!"
I was looking around at the setup like, this is really happening. And Lucy was standing there, looking all kinds of mad-scientist chic, with some weird bowls in hand, grinning like a psycho. I shot her a look that basically screamed, I'm gonna regret this.
"Lucy, this better work," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because this took a huge chunk out of my savings, if this plan of yours doesn't work, I'm going to be left with nothing but a uncomfortable men's suit and a face that looks like it belongs to someone who failed a Halloween makeup test"
She just shrugged, unfazed. "Men's clothes are expensive, I know. But you're gonna be rolling in cash soon. It's worth it."
Yeah, sure. I wasn't convinced.
Lucy was already moving me toward the chair she had set up, completely ignoring my complaints. "We're doing this. Strip down to your sports bra and booty shorts. Don't want to ruin your clothes, do we?"
I blinked. "I—what? You want me to—" But I didn't even finish the sentence. Lucy had already started pulling at my shirt, and I could tell I wasn't gonna win this one. So, I just did what any girl would do when faced with a genius plan—I reluctantly complied.
I slipped into the chair, wrapping my arms around myself like I was about to be placed under execution rather than just getting a makeover. I made sure to keep my hair out of my face by pulling it up into a messy bun. Because, honestly, I wasn't sure if I'd have any left when Lucy was done with me.
Then came the fun part. Lucy began mixing something in a bowl, her eyes lighting up like she was about to create the world's most perfect face or maybe just... ruin mine entirely. "This is the magic paste!" she said, as though she had just discovered the cure for cancer. I swallowed hard. "If you ruin my face with that mushy stuff, I'll shave your head when you're asleep, Lucy. Don't test me."
She just gave me an evil grin. No mercy, this one.
She turned to apply the paste to my face. But just as she was about to start, she cursed loudly. "Jeepers, I forgot to apply the oil for easy removal!"
"Lucy!" I yelled. "You didn't think to mention that before?" I was already regretting my life choices.
She gave me that sheepish grin, the one that made me want to throw something at her. "Whoops," she said before putting the paste down, dabbing oil onto my face. She slathered it on like it was a skincare routine, but all I could think was, "You better not make me look like a failed science experiment." At least she remembered, I guess.
Once that was all slathered on, she started applying the actual white paste. My whole face was covered, except for my eyes, mouth, and nostrils. I could feel it dripping down my neck, and all I could think was, this better not make me look like a disaster. The result? It looked like I had just dipped my face into a bucket of wet cement. But, of course, that was supposed to be the start of the magic.
"Now, we wait for it to dry," Lucy said. "I'll mix the skin tone color while we're at it."
I tried not to panic. Drying, huh? Sure. That was when the real struggle began.
If you've ever tried to get something to dry when it's too thick and heavy on your face, you'll know exactly what I mean when I say this: It. Was. Hell.
I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more.
One hour passed. Two hours. I was sitting there, in the chair, absolutely unable to move my face. And every time I even attempted to speak, my words came out as if I was channeling a bad version of a ventriloquist's dummy. My mouth barely moved. It was pure torture.
By the time I had waited for what felt like an eternity, my patience was thinning, and guess what? The paste hadn't fully dried yet. And in my brilliance, I decided to talk. Yeah, not the best idea. My mouth—which was supposed to remain a smooth, flawless part of my transformation—had turned into a soggy mess. It ruined the whole damn thing.
I could feel the paste cracking around my lips, which only made me even more irritable.
"You need to hurry this up, Lucy! My face is dying in here!" I grumbled, my voice muffled.
Lucy, who was definitely more amused by my suffering than she should've been, turned to me and sighed. "You weren't supposed to talk yet! But I guess if you're that desperate to chat, I'll just reapply it." Apparently I wasn't supposed to talk before it dried so I ended up messing it up around the mouth.
I groaned, cursing under my breath. "This better be worth it," I muttered, as she went back to work—painfully reapplying the paste like it was some sort of second layer of misery.
So yeah, note to self: if you ever have to sit through a makeover that involves waiting for stuff to dry, don't talk.
Lucy looked at me like I was the problem. "It'll dry! Just give it time!" she insisted, mixing some more mysterious concoction in a bowl.
By hour three, I couldn't take it anymore. I needed a break. So, I had this brilliant idea to run to the balcony and catch some sun. That would dry this mess faster, right?
Yeah, no. Turns out, walking around outside with your face covered in goo doesn't make you look like a man—it makes you look like someone who has serious issues. I scared the life out of the neighbor's cat, and I'm pretty sure two kids in the apartment across from mine are now in therapy because they saw my "transformation" process. The cat took one look at me and bolted like I was a monster, and those kids stared at me like I was a ghost.
But hey, at least it dried.
Now came the fun part.
Lucy finally started pulling the paste off my face. Only... she forgot to mention how painful it would be. It wasn't like taking off a face mask; it was like she was peeling my skin off in tiny, slow layers. By the time she finished, my face was red. Not from blushing, mind you—from the pain.
I didn't hold back. I screamed. I cursed. I almost threatened to kick her, but the pain in my face was more than enough punishment.
"What the hell, Lucy?! You said this was gonna be easy!" I groaned, clutching my burning face as I stumbled out of the chair.
Lucy, completely unfazed by my misery, wiped her hands on a towel and said, "It's fine. It's fine. You will look great! A perfect man."