Do you like my stupid hair? Would you guess that I didn't know what to wear?

It was the middle of August and I was fighting a losing battle with my hair. I picked up the black bottle of hair spray and gentle pushed down the nozzle, coating not only my hair but also my shoulders and the counter top in my bathroom with a fine layer of spray. As I inhaled, the alcohol hit the back of my throat.

With a small cough and sigh of resignation, I put down the bottle and opened up the top drawer, revealing a rainbow of make-up- cherry red lipsticks, vibrant blue eye liners, sultry dark shadows. I pushed beyond all of that to find a well-used compact.

I opened the lid to the compact and took out my brushes. I began with lilac, one that had just a hint of shimmer, spreading a thin layer over my brow bone. Cleaning off the brush, I dipped it into the darker color of the palette-a deep, plum purple. With expert motion, I swept the brush across my crease once, then over again deepening the rich color. Finally, a stroke of golden brown at the lash line, to highlight and reflect.

The tube of mascara sat to my right-I picked it up and unscrewed the cap. I passed over each eye, making sure to cover the innermost and outermost lashes; two coats on each side before putting the wand back into the tube.

For the first time, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My brown eyes had gone from ordinary, to sultry, sexy, enticing. I studied my handiwork proudly and softly smiled.

I placed my eye shadows back in the drawer and pulled out my powder, a small pot almost the same shade as my ivory skin. I swirled her brush in the cap, picking up more and more of the powder with each pass. I used the same motion to apply it to my skin, and slowly any imperfections, both imaginary and real, were slowly buffed away. A small hint of color at the apple of my cheeks brought my face to life.

Until my eye caught sight of a few small hairs that had broken free of their confinement, now waving in the breeze of the overhead fan. They were so small, but they were all I could see.

I backed away from the mirror-I couldn’t spend any more time on my hair, I decided.

Exiting the bathroom, I entered my bedroom and looked through my closet, trying to find the perfect outfit in the mess of clothes.

Another sigh of frustration escaped my lips.

Why was getting ready for a first date so nerve wracking?

This is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge: sensory detail.