Thursday, April 21, 2005

Plastic Girl and Gimp Man

I’m riding home after class with Séverine. Sitting next to her is a fine specimen of what I call the Plastic Girl. She got on at Etoile – station whose name means “star”. White waist-length coat, white mp3 player, white pointy-toed pumps. Pink T-shirt with the word “Flirt” embossed with sequins. Vacuum-packed jeans, requisite oversize hoop earrings, and blonde-streaked hair. Plastic Girl attaches the mp3 system to her ears – or what’s left of them, sagging under the weight of aforementioned hoops – to barricade herself from the plebian surroundings. These include: myself (unshowered, unshaved, unslept), Séverine, and the man sitting to my right – Gimp Man. Gimp Man has frizzy hair, a crutch, and a nervous twitch. When I lean forward to better catch Séverine’s words, my elbow brushes against his, setting off further twitching.

Sound system safely in place, Plastic Girl can proceed with makeup operations, pulling out a compact and quickly checking mascara (not running), powder (still caked on, no problem), lipliner and gloss (appropriately lurid). Plastic Girl is evidently so fabulous that she is allowed to do her makeup in public. By doing so, she is not being tactless, she is simply marking her territory.

Mere mortals might think this is the metro – in reality it is her boudoir. A hushed awe descends upon the car, as we realize that Plastic Girl is really a star. Of course! I should have realized earlier. All hail the Plastic Queen.


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