The makeup room buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Bright bulbs framed the mirrors in harsh halos, and the smell of foundation, hairspray, and warm curling irons created a foggy atmosphere that clung to the skin.
Micah sat in a chair, hands folded neatly on his lap, remaining still as the ends of his newly extended silver hair rested against his shoulder, framing his pale face with an almost metallic sheen. The sharp artistic strokes of makeup gave him a cool, celestial air; cheekbones highlighted in soft moon-white, his lips tinted a faint icy blue, and eyeliner drawn in crisp geometric lines that made his eyes appear slightly larger, slightly unreal, as though he were actually a humanoid stepping out of a sci-fi world.
He tilted his chin as the makeup artist applied the final touches. "Done! Wonderful. Go on and change your clothes now," the makeup artist said, patting Micah's shoulder.
