Five more minutes
Larissa's voice came from the living room, carrying the same sharp impatience that, until last week, had belonged exclusively to him. Michael swallowed hard and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He wanted to shout back. He wanted to explain that five minutes was a physically impossible deadline when you had a head full of pink curlers digging into your scalp and a floor-length satin robe that seemed determined to trip you at every turn.
It had all started with a silly complaint the previous Saturday.
“Why do you take so long? It's just a little foundation and putting your hair up. What's the big deal?” he'd said, barely looking up from his phone.
Larissa had simply smiled. It was a calm, icy, vaguely dangerous smile that he should have learned to recognize years ago.
“All right,” she'd replied sweetly. “Next Saturday, we'll switch. You get ready exactly the way I do, and I'll drive.”
Michael had assumed it was a joke. It wasn't.
Some mysterious fog between Friday night and Saturday morning later, he had awakened to find himself in Larissa's slender silhouette, with delicate features, a completely unfamiliar body, and one very specific mission: transform himself into a glamorous diva for his in-laws' wedding anniversary dinner.
The fact that Larissa was now occupying his former body was only the beginning of his problems.
The beauty ritual, which he had privately nicknamed the Torture Session, had started three hours earlier. Moisturizer, primer, foundation, concealer, powder... every product came with its own purpose, its own technique, and apparently its own set of rules that nobody had bothered to explain to him.
Choosing the right foundation shade alone had been a nightmare. Too pale, and he looked like a ghost. Too warm, and he resembled a Dorito.
His fingers, accustomed to nothing more complicated than splashing water on his face and using a bar of soap, felt like wooden clubs as he attempted to maneuver tiny brushes around his cheeks. Every time he thought he had finished one step, Larissa introduced another product with a name that sounded suspiciously like something from a chemistry laboratory.
And then there were the curlers.
Larissa had installed them with surgical precision, pulling each section of hair tight enough to make Michael wonder whether his brain had shifted a few inches to the left. She had assured him that the discomfort was perfectly normal and that beauty required patience.
Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one sitting under a pink plastic crown of torture.
The satin robe was another problem. It felt wonderfully smooth against his skin, but its slippery fabric refused to stay where it belonged. Every time he bent down to retrieve a dropped brush, the hem threatened to tangle around his ankles. He had already learned to move in short, careful steps, like an elderly aristocrat navigating a slippery ballroom.
Still, the worst was yet to come.
His final boss was waiting on the marble countertop.
Liquid eyeliner.
“Three minutes, Michael! The Uber Black is almost here!” Larissa called again, followed by the unmistakable click-clack of heels approaching along the hallway.
“Coming! Just putting on the finishing touches!” Michael lied, his voice rising an octave under the pressure.
His hands began to tremble.
He gripped the applicator as if it were a loaded weapon. The slender black felt tip seemed to mock him from inches away. He had watched Larissa apply eyeliner hundreds of times. She made it look effortless, drawing a perfect, elegant line with the casual confidence of someone signing a receipt.
How difficult could it possibly be?
He gently pulled the skin above his right eye, just as he'd seen her do.
Breathe. Concentrate. It's just a line.
He touched the applicator to his eyelid.
The cold liquid made him blink instantly.
“Damn it!”
The straight, delicate line he had envisioned turned into a thick, trembling squiggle, like a dead black caterpillar sprawled across his eyelashes.
Panicking, Michael decided the best solution was to make the outer corner thicker and turn the mess into a fashionable cat-eye.
The result looked less like a glamorous movie star and more like a goth rocker who had spent the night crying in the rain.
He leaned closer to the mirror, trying to decide whether there was enough room left on his eyelid to start over.
“Michael, I'm opening the door!” Larissa announced.
He had seconds.
In a desperate attempt to make his left eye match the right, he raised the applicator again. His hand, trembling from stress and far too much coffee, slipped completely.
A black streak shot upward toward his eyebrow.
For a moment, he simply stared at the damage.
Then the bathroom door swung open.
Larissa stopped in the doorway.
She looked immaculate in a perfectly tailored suit, her posture relaxed and her expression radiating the kind of satisfaction that only comes from watching a long-awaited lesson unfold exactly as planned. Michael's former body suited her remarkably well. She had even managed to arrange his hair with an ease that felt personally insulting.
Michael slowly turned toward her.
His pale pink satin robe hung slightly crooked at the waist. The curlers in his fringe bobbed tragically with the movement, and his eyes resembled two separate grease stains. They might have been symmetrical if one had been pointing toward his ear and the other toward his forehead.
Larissa pressed her lips together.
It didn't help.
“Well?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Ready for the buffet? All you have to do is put on a little foundation and walk out the door, right?”
Michael looked at the eyeliner in his hand, then at the mirror, and finally at his wife.
The last remaining fragments of his masculine pride evaporated.
“I take it all back,” he whimpered. “Everything I've said for the past five years.”
His eyes began to water, which only made the black disaster around them spread even farther.
“Please, help me get this stuff off with that weird oil you use! I swear to God, I'll never complain about how long anyone takes to get ready ever again!”
Larissa burst out laughing.
She stepped forward, gently took the cotton pads from the counter, and reached for the cleansing oil. Michael closed his eyes and stood perfectly still as she began rescuing his face from the cosmetic catastrophe.
For once, he didn't complain about the time it took.
As Larissa worked, he caught a glimpse of their reflections in the mirror. She was wearing his suit, standing with the easy confidence he had always taken for granted. He was wearing her robe, his hair full of curlers, and enough eyeliner to qualify as a cautionary tale.
Somehow, the sight was even more humiliating than the transformation itself.
“You know,” Larissa said, her voice softening as she wiped away the last stubborn smudge, “you don't have to love makeup. But perhaps you could stop acting as though getting ready is effortless.”
Michael opened one eye cautiously.
“Does this mean I can take the curlers out?”
“Not yet.”
“Larissa!”
“Patience, darling. Beauty takes time.”
She smiled at him in the mirror.
This time, he recognized the smile for what it was: a warning that he was not getting out of this lesson quite so easily.
Michael sighed and closed his eyes again.
He had three hours of makeup, a head full of curlers, and a satin robe to thank for a newfound appreciation of his wife's patience. And if the evening went well, perhaps he might even survive dinner with his in-laws without anyone asking why he looked like a glamorous movie star who had lost a fight with a mascara factory.
One thing was certain.
Next Saturday, when Larissa said she needed an extra hour to get ready, Michael would have the car keys waiting, the bathroom counter cleared, and absolutely nothing to say about it.
Five minutes, he had learned, could be an eternity.
Especially when you were the one wearing the pink curlers.
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