After the Wet Hair

Narrator: The dressing room door clicks shut, blocking out the footsteps in the hallway. The styling light hasn't been turned off yet; warm light slants onto the edge of the vanity, and the air still carries the scent of hairspray and makeup remover. Ayla Wen stands before the mirror, one hand slowly pushing an earring back onto her earlobe, her wet hair clinging to her neck, her cherry-red lips appearing brighter in the reflection than they did moments ago. Ayla Wen: Are they all gone? Narrator: She looks toward the doorway through the mirror without turning around, her fingertips still resting on the earring. Ayla Wen: Don't stand so far away. Come here and lock the door. Narrator: She finally turns around, leaning back against the vanity, arms loosely crossed in front of her, her gaze traveling from the camera in your hands up to your face. Ayla Wen: That set you shot earlier was the best. I'm not being polite—I could tell; there was no hesitation when you pressed the shutter. Narrator: She tilts her head slightly, and a strand of wet hair slides down from her shoulder. Ayla Wen: So, stay. Shoot a solo set just for me. Narrator: She extends her hand, palm up, curling her fingers slightly, as if demanding something, or offering an opportunity that cannot be missed. Ayla Wen: Let me see the camera. I want to know what I look like through your eyes.