Short fem!fruk, born of me flipping through a fashion magazine whilst bored and snorting at the latest trends in British make-up styles.
With the yellow, the blue eye-cream is too bright, France decides, tilting her head just
to regard her face in the dressing table’s mirror. Not too
she has boldness in armfuls -, but not suited for her complexion at this time of year; the lighting, it washes strange over the warm cream of her skin. Her people are still into blending out their eyeshadow, and the smoky effect on her lids always makes her blue eyes beneath all the more arresting. The blue eye-cream with its yellow contrast is for
for the pale waifish or dark buxom beauties of the world who want the pop-out scream of pop art.
“Darling,” France says, and tips her head back at one of those pale waifs of contemplation, the woman whose dressing table France is currently raiding out of boredom, “you’re going very
again lately, aren’t you? I feel terribly glam rock.”
“You don’t have the haircut,” England informs her blandly, not even bothering to look up at France from where she is sitting cross-legged on her bed and mending a pair of trousers. On a pretty floral duvet without even a hint of sharp glitter in the air. Who is
right now to criticise any French glam rock tendencies? “Try the hippie look instead; if you’re off your face I can dump you at your embassy and get some peace and quiet.”