4. wigs and warfare [OLD]

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A / N

Something came up last night and I was unable to post, so enjoy this longer chapter to make up for it!


I saw Ian the next day in wardrobe

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I saw Ian the next day in wardrobe. My stomach didn't just somersault, it did a freaking Olympic yurchenko. Somewhere between back handspring and the final backflip, he looked up and saw me watching him.

His eyebrow twitched.

"Careful!" scolded Claire. She held a small brush close to the arch of his eyebrow. "I have to blend this."

I stepped through the open doorway. "Knock, knock. Your mom said you were back here."

"Kavs!" She twisted her hips to look at me. Her riotous dyed-blonde curls were pulled into a poufy bun at the top of her head. "You're just in time," she said with a wave. "The wig's in front of the mirror."

The red curls had been brushed into flowing, soft Ariel waves. It was more hair than I'd seen on any other wig we used at the Playhouse, maybe even more than Rapunzel's.

A pang of longing for Belle's beautiful updo and sunshine-yellow dress hit me. Hard.

I watched as Claire used light sweeps of the brush to mimic the appearance of real hair. She moved with grace, each brushstroke even and careful.

I couldn't help but envy her. Claire was gorgeous. She could play any princess in her mom's company if she wanted. Poppy was a Brit living in France when she met Claire's dad, a soccer player from Senegal. Between her height, tan skin, and practically poreless complexion, Claire had inherited the best of both their features.

"Do we have to do this? I feel a little uncomfortable wearing makeup." Ian crossed his arms. "My eyebrows were fine before."

"Um, have you seen Prince Eric?" Claire put a hand on her hip. "How that boy managed to get an eyebrow game that strong in an animated movie is beyond me."

"I'm fine with a weak brow game," said Ian. His eyes flicked to me, then away.

His sparse eyebrows were filled in with dip brow, defining the arch with sharp, clear lines. Even underneath the foundation she'd patted on his cheeks, I could see the blush.

Addressing me for the first time, he asked, "Isn't this great?" His fingers plucked at the deep, plunging V-neck tunic he wore.

"Are those..." I blinked. "Women's jeggings?"

The cuffed dark-wash jeggings made his legs even slimmer, and Prince Eric's waistband was an appalling shade of red. It kind of matched the color of my wig, actually.

Ian's gaze slid down his legs. "They're jeans."

I pointed to the ripped jeans I wore. "These are jeans. Those are denim jeggings." I flicked my eyes to his waist. "And that cummerbund is...I mean, what can I say about it?"

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