She said “more” before you finished the first pass.

Not after she saw it. Before. While the brush was still in the air, still mid-stroke, she was already reaching for the word like she’d been holding it the whole appointment. More. You pressed a little more. You stepped back. She leaned toward the mirror and tilted her chin up and said it again. More.

It’s a wedding. Not hers — she’s a bridesmaid. But the way she’s been sitting in your chair for the last forty minutes, you’d think the ceremony was built around her cheekbones. The look she came in with on her phone was editorial — one light source, one camera angle, a photographer who knew exactly where to stand. She doesn’t see any of that. She sees the glow and she wants it. All of it.

You look at what’s on her face right now. The highlight is already doing its job. The cheekbones catch. The brow bone lifts. There’s a warmth to the whole thing that photographs beautifully. You know this because you’ve done this before, many times, in rooms with cameras and phones and people taking pictures all night.

You also know what happens in those rooms when the highlight is two layers heavier than it should be. You’ve seen the photos. The blown-out streak across the cheekbone. The flash bouncing back so hard the whole face reads overexposed. The glow that looked like radiance in the mirror, looking like sweat in every photo. The bride will be printing these. They will exist forever.

She’s watching you in the mirror. Waiting. The brush is in your hand. The compact is open on the counter.