The next day, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me from the salon mirror. Wavy, shiny locks fell gracefully to my shoulders. My weight loss made my cheekbones stand out, and a cropped tank top revealed my navel above low-rise cutoff jeans and wedges. The image made me extremely uncomfortable.

Starry appeared in the mirror, behind me, beaming over my shoulder. “Finally! You look like a doll!”

I cringed, unable to bridge the strange dichotomy between Mom’s reaction and feeling like a clown, a total fraud. Plus, what were dolls for if not playing with? Gross.

She doubled down. “Why don’t you let them put some makeup on you?”

“Are you kidding me? I don’t recognize myself as it is!”

“Oh, stop! You’ll get used to it. Give it a chance.”

Both my mom and sister used heavy foundation that stained their clothes, eyeliner and eyeshadow that smeared by evening, and lipstick so bright that my eyeballs recoiled. No way.

When Ange picked me up that night, a touch of mascara made my lashes thicker and longer, and I’d even painted my nails with clear polish. I’d tried to dress “girly” once before, at twelve, and the sensation had been one of utter humiliation, like in those nightmares when you’re suddenly naked at school. Well, six years later, not much had changed, except that I’d learned to push through and trust myself less than anybody else.