After a liesurely afternoon spent at the Temple Bar, Morgan and I moseyed on over to my place to get her all gussied up for a night at the circus–the “Freakaphonic Circus,” that is, which seems to be the Wild Buffalo’s answer to a Halloween costume party (I did not go, but opted instead to curl up in bed with Howards End, the cats and a studious Mitch). Morgan went as a zombie prom queen; I was enlisted to do her zombie make-up.
So, while Morgan put on dress, gloves, shoes and tiara, I dug through both our make-up bags on a quest for unflattering shades of eyeshadow and brutally red lipstick, trying the colors out on the insides of my wrists before finally sitting her down and beginning the uglifying process. I had far too much fun with this, however disturbing it may be to make one’s best friend flat-out hideous–by the time we finished I had white face paint and fake blood smeared on my jeans and forearms, plus some alarming fake bruises where I’d tested black-violet eyeshadow on myself before applying it to her eyes, cheeks and collarbones.
The whole process was an awful lot like getting ready for a real prom, but with one crucial difference–when we finished, Morgan looked terrible, and that was the whole point. I couldn’t look at her directly for very long without cringing, while she was morbidly drawn back to the mirror again and again, exclaiming, “Oh my god! I look horrid!”