Page 3 of Holly Jolly July
Mariah
This is going to be a very long two weeks.
Despite knowing my way around this city as if I’d never left it, the commute from Vancouver to the Fraser Valley can be unpredictable
and I ended up getting caught in traffic, arriving fifteen minutes late—not the first impression I wanted to make. As a result,
I’m neither set up nor prepared for my day ahead. Luckily today is a short day since I only have one person to get ready.
My head hurts and I wince as I straighten too quickly after grabbing several shades of blush from my bag. With the giant windows
in this place it’s already so bright, but compounded by the vanity lights framing the mirror it’s enough to make my headache
go from slight pressure to painful throb.
The noise isn’t helping, either. Not just the crowd behind me, but the incessant chatter of the woman sitting in my chair.
You’d think someone would take the hint and stop talking after a few minutes, but not her. What did she say her name was?
I forgot it as soon as she’d said it, and there’s no signage on this table to clue me in otherwise.
“...and last year’s Christmas movie we had this hilarious costume problem—my clothes were all too small! My shirt was so tight it nearly
took the movie from G-rated to PG-13, if you know what I mean...”
I should have remembered to pack my earplugs.
After sanitizing my hands, I squirt some primer onto my fingertips and begin spreading it over her face, which doesn’t slow her motormouth.
She has good skin, evidently using a decent moisturizer, which makes my job easier.
The light fawn of her skin is speckled with freckles over her nose, which has a proud bump to it, giving her a regal look.
There is a small mole just below her left eye, adding a bit of character.
Round eyes, light brown, innocent-looking.
I’ll use my bronze Deja Vu through the centre of her lids, highlight the edges with Frosting, make that goldish tone in her eyes pop.
Her sandy-blond hair falls in unruly curls, which I’m not sure if they want me to accentuate or straighten. I’ll have to ask Jimmie.
After priming I bend back down to find my brushes, pushing past my piles of costume makeup I probably should have left at
home rather than lugging it all around with me. It’s not like I’ll get a chance to use it while I’m here, besides possibly
entertaining my measly five hundred TikTok followers.
Finding my brush sets, I place them on the dresser in front of us and begin applying foundation. My colour match is spot-on.
Without having to be prompted, she lifts her chin and lets me blend from her rounded jawline down her long neck. Afterward,
I move on to the blush, highlighting and lowlighting her cheekbones.
“I’ve never really been out this way before. I hear there’s some great hiking. It’s a tight schedule, but most of my scenes
are near the end, so I’ll have a few days to go out and explore. Maybe I’ll go see that waterfall I saved on Pinterest years
ago...”
I don’t interrupt to tell her that she’s looking for Bridal Falls, and it’s a twenty-minute drive east—wouldn’t want to encourage
her. She’d force me to talk more, which will make her talk more, and nobody wants that. She might even want me to give her pointers on cool stuff to do nearby or show her around.
The last thing I want to do is be someone’s tour guide, especially someone as obnoxious as her.
Nope. As soon as this job is over, I’m beating it back to Vancouver—where I belong.
I left Chilliwack behind six years ago and never looked back.
From that first year in cosmetology, with its unbelievable highs and devastating lows, to my first job backstage at drag shows, to assisting weddings, to my freelance work with family photographers, I’ve slowly found a small place in the world for myself.
I’m not where I want to be yet, putting my costume makeup skills to good use.
Even though I’m here, working on a movie set like I’ve always dreamed of, I’m still doing the same boring crap I’ve done for work every day. And it’s sucking the life out of me.
When I applied for this job I thought this would be a step up, furthering my goals, my dreams, my ambitions, but so far it
seems lateral at best.
Maybe even a step back.
I mean, it’s a Christmas movie for fuck’s sake. It’s the exact opposite of what I wanted to do with my life. Surely at some
point, if I ever get my resume looked at by someone wanting to make a movie with actual makeup, they’ll take one look at CHRISTMAS ON THUNDERBIRD LANE , have a hearty laugh, and throw it in the dumpster.
Well, click Delete, and move on to the next.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. And the pay is decent. But is it enough to put up with all of this?
I eye the woman blathering on in front of me.
Probably not.
“Close,” I say, gesturing to her eyes.
She complies, though her lips keep moving as she prattles on. I brush on some eyeshadow, blending throughout, the colour accenting
her skin just as I knew it would.
My phone rings, and I pause what I’m doing to fish it out of my bag.
Mother .
My gut twists as I remember why I’d chosen to drink too much wine last night. Feeling suddenly nauseous, I silence my phone
and toss it back into my bag.
“Everything okay?” the woman asks.
“Yep. Close.” I gesture at her eyes again, and she does as she’s told. I apply a dark brown eyeliner to her lids, giving her a “makeup-less look” while still getting her eyes to pop for the camera.
“Good, because I was just thinking about how, two years ago, oh my god, it was the funniest thing, the reindeer they brought
on set...”
“I gotta do your lips now, hun,” I interrupt, though I have to admit, my interest has been piqued.
She sets her lips in a relaxed, half-open pout, her throat bobbing just so. She has beautiful, full, bow-shaped lips, and
I know exactly what to do with them. It takes me a few moments to apply dusty rose lipstick to her. She sits still, evidently
well-practised from her time working on set.
“Okay, open,” I tell her, then turn her to the mirror.
She gasps so loud it makes me jump.
“Oh... my... lanta ! Girl, you’re amazing. Look at my eyes!”
I begin threading my fingers through her hair. Where is Jimmie? I still don’t know what he wants me to do with this, although
it would be a shame to straighten these natural curls.
The woman is still flattering me with all sorts of remarks, which I ignore, while I flag down the lead makeup artist—Simon
Jimmie, who goes by his last name after his great-great-grandfather. Jimmie’s russet skin is accented with bold makeup, highlighting
his sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. His long black hair is tied back in a ponytail, and his plain sage button-up shirt is
contrasted by a colourful beaded necklace. I’d FaceTimed him once before during the interview process, but my phone screen
didn’t do him justice.
Despite being a small man, Jimmie carries the aura of a person twice his size.
Jimmie’s worked with Samuel L. Jackson and the late Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and learning from him is the only thing that makes this job worthwhile.
Hopefully he’ll give me a good reference so I can further my career in the industry—and by further, I mean get me far, far away from this holly jolly hell hole.
Jimmie spots me and approaches, clipboard in hand.
“Hey, Jimmie, for her hair, do you want me to—”
“No, no, no,” he cuts me off. “This is all wrong.”
I look back at my work. She looks stunning. “What?”
“First of all, you’re late.”
“I’m sorry, it won’t—”
“First ones on set, last ones off. Understood?”
I nod.
“We don’t need you to stay today since it’s just blocking and promotional shots, but tomorrow and every day after you’ll be
here the full day.”
“No problem,” I say, even though my stomach is curdling.
“Now, for your work.” Jimmie purses his hand as if he’s Italian and gestures at me. “She stands out way too much. The script
makes it obvious, she has to blend in to the background. We can’t have her eyes popping like that, it’s distracting.”
“Oh... sorry?” I say, not quite sure what he expected.
“You did read the script, didn’t you?” Though Jimmie is small, he is fierce, and I find myself shrinking under his intense gaze.
“I haven’t got around to it yet, but...”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Always, always read the script.” He flails his arms wide. “How are you supposed
to know what to do with your actors if you don’t know their place in the story?”
“Do you want me to redo it?” I venture, fiddling with the brush in my hand.
He looks at his Apple Watch then shakes his head. “We don’t have time. Wipe it off a bit and you’ll have to try again tomorrow.
But for next time, more pale, less eye-popping, and very little on the lips, okay?”
“Uh, okay. And the hair?”
“Do it up in a bun—loose, messy, like she doesn’t care about it.”
“Okay.” Easy enough.
Jimmie switches his attention to the woman in the chair, brightening instantly. “Ellie, good to see you again. Everyone else
will be ready for blocking in the coffee shop in ten, okay?”
“Sounds great, thanks, Jimmie!” the woman, Ellie, chirps.
Jimmie stalks away and I turn back to Ellie, embarrassed and a bit frazzled after such a public reprimand. I’ve been on set
for all of thirty minutes and already it seems my future in the industry will be shorter than the filming schedule of this
movie. Hopefully I can make up for it over the next couple weeks and get a good reference to work on something else. I’d take
pretty much anything at this point—anything but another Christmas movie.
Ellie doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort. Her perfectly erect posture slumps as she gazes back at herself in the mirror.
The sparkle in her eyes is diminished, and I can’t help but feel bad for her; nobody likes being told they have to blend in.
I take a makeup wipe and remove all the work I’d done on her eyes, and then her lips, leaving her looking very pale and plain,
especially next to the other actors behind us who are making their way down to the set.
After a moment Ellie shakes off her mild moroseness, literally shaking her limbs, and switches back to her painfully wide
smile and obnoxiously positive radiance. I tie her hair up in a loose bun, letting a couple of curly tendrils escape to frame
her face, and then release her.
“Okay, done.”
“Thank you so much, Mariah,” she practically yells. “You are a doll. And so good with your hands!”
I refrain from making an innuendo. “Yep. No worries.”
“The way you put on my eyeliner was so practised and easy. I can barely get myself dressed in the morning. Oh! Speaking of—” She strips off her oversized Christmas sweater, and my eyes can’t help but catch on her dainty clavicle, the roundness of her small breasts.
Her tank top underneath is practically soaked in sweat, making it transparent.
Why the hell is she wearing such a big sweater?
Has she never heard of heatstroke? “I have to bust my ass to get to costume,” she continues.
“Thankfully it’s simple, just some regular clothes plus an apron and—”
I cut her off. “Okay, yeah, great. Better hurry.”
She snaps her fingers and grins. “You’re totally right, I’m running behind. We can chat more tomorrow. See you then, Mariah!”
She runs off with a flourish and the world seems ten times quieter with her gone. I rub my temples and close my eyes, taking
a breath. I’m glad it’s a short day today, to ease myself into this nightmare. After cleaning my station, I throw everything
I won’t be needing back into my giant duffel bag and haul it all down the stairs and out onto the street. The intense July
sunlight glares in my face, and I pause to pull out my sunglasses before continuing. Unfortunately, I have to walk past the
set to where I parked my car.
The street is grossly overcrowded, the film crew clogging it more than last-minute shoppers on Christmas Eve. Everything is
covered in fake crap—from the green plastic garland, to the spray-on frosting on the glass, to the dingy off-white blankets
that are supposed to pass as snow. The whole downtown core itself is fake. Brand-new, only built a few years ago, but supposed
to look like some sort of old English town? This is Chilliwack, not Oxfordshire. It’s a far cry from the faded brick buildings
and PencilFingerz mural, the downtown I grew up with.
Not that I’m sentimental about Chilliwack—I just hate fake shit and commercialism. Ironic, since I’m now forced to be amongst
the fakest of fake shit and the commercialest of commercialism with this damn Christmas movie.
I get to my old silver Civic and turn the ignition, blasting the AC. After tossing my duffel bag into the back seat with my
suitcase and pillow, I check the voicemail Mom left me.
“Hey sweetie! Dad and I are so excited to have you. And we figured, since you’re filming a Christmas movie and you couldn’t make it home last year because of the weather, we could have a little Christmas redo of our own! I was thinking—”
I delete the message before it gets any further and thunk my head against the steering wheel. This is a nightmare. I’ve been
avoiding Christmas with my parents for years. It’s easy to find an excuse. The roads are bad. I’m in Mexico. I’m spending it with my girlfriend—
God, I need a drink. It would certainly help with this headache. Not to mention dealing with my mom. Any excuse to put off
going home for a few more hours is a good one. I just didn’t think, after all this time and so many years, I’d be back here.
Is there anything worse than having to live through an extra Christmas? One is hard enough.