I Demanded to Be a Star

The bride wanted me to make her look like Anne Hathaway.
I tried to gently dissuade her. Replicating a celebrity's entire face for your wedding isn't usually recommended.
She took it as a challenge. I'm paying, so I get what I want. What, you can't do it?
As the top SFX makeup artist in my field, of course I could do it.
A tight, humorless smile stretched across my face. "Oh, I can do it. Let's get started."

1
I'm a makeup artist.
I had just wrapped up a special effects project overseas, a grueling marathon of four consecutive all-nighters. The moment my plane touched down, a text from my colleague, Sarah, buzzed on my phone. She was practically crying through the screen, saying her kid had a fever and if she took another day off, she’d lose her entire performance bonus. She was begging me to cover her shift.
I was reluctant. "Sarah, I do special effects. Bridal makeup isn't really my thing."
She wouldn't take no for an answer. "Yes, it is! You know how to do it. It's that standard package we all learned when we first started at the studio." Her texts became more frantic. "Just do the first look. My mother-in-law will be here soon, and then I can come in."
I sighed. Fine, I'd do her a favor.
The moment I stepped into the makeup suite, one of the bridesmaids sidled up to me.
"You know, our Chloe is a pretty big influencer," she said, her voice conspiratorial. "Lots of followers. Do you think we could get this session for free, you know, for the exposure?"
The bride, Chloe, tilted her chin up with a smug little smile.
I shook my head instinctively. "I'm just the artist. I don't handle the pricing."
Besides, they were already here for the pre-wedding photoshoot. Hadn't they paid already?
Chloe’s face fell instantly, her lips pressing into a thin, unhappy line.
When I presented her with the portfolio of bridal looks, she shoved it aside.
"I don't need to choose. Make me look like this."
She held up her phone, displaying a photo of Anne Hathaway clutching a bouquet of flowers, her smile radiant and luminous.
This was a problem.
The woman in the mirror had sharp, demanding eyes and a condescending tone. Her skin was sallow, framed by massive dark circles under her eyes. But the biggest issue was her face shape—a soft square.
For a face like hers, the key was to create dimension and contour, shifting the focus away from her strong jawline and up toward her eyes and brows. It was the best way to highlight her features and minimize the rest.
"Ma'am," I suggested gently, "your features would be stunning with a classic, sultry Hollywood look. A warm, earthy eyeshadow palette and some soft waves would really bring out your natural glamour."
She shot me a glare. "Are you making a crack about my teeth?"
I froze. A dozen diplomatic responses flashed through my mind, but the furious clench of her brow told me none of them would work. I swallowed them back down.
"Not at all, ma'am," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "We'll proceed with whatever you'd like."
She wasn't satisfied. "What's with the attitude? Are you trying to be sarcastic?"
"No, ma'am."
She let out a sharp huff. "Cut the crap. I paid for a service, and I expect to get exactly what I want." Then, she shifted gears. "I'm thirsty. I want... what's it called? That fancy cloud water."
Her bridesmaid chimed in instantly, "Evian. It's called Evian."
I pursed my lips. "We don't have that in the studio, I'm afraid. Would Perrier be alright?"
She waved a dismissive hand. "Another generic brand." She glanced down at my chest, her nails—a tacky explosion of pink rhinestones—flicking my work ID. "Vivi, is it? I'm not a fan of your attitude. Are you trying to get a formal complaint filed against you?"
This was Sarah’s client. Even though I was just covering, a complaint would still hit her record and dock her pay. That didn't seem fair. But seven days of travel and no sleep had drained me of the energy required to even feel angry. I just wanted to get this done and go home to collapse.
"One moment," I told the bride. I turned and asked an assistant to run across the street and buy a bottle of Evian.

2
When the young assistant handed me the water, she leaned in and whispered, "Did she ask you for a discount the second you walked in?"
I raised an eyebrow and nodded.
Her expression was a perfect "I knew it." She continued in a low voice, "Her future sister-in-law is the one paying for this whole photoshoot package. She's trying to get it for free so she can pocket the refund herself."
"Honestly," she sighed, "we never used to put up with clients like this. The new manager has no backbone at all. Sarah was so tired of dealing with her that she just didn't want to come in today."
I shot her a questioning look.
She immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with embarrassment. "Oops, never mind. Forget I said that. Her kid is definitely sick. She's at the hospital."
And with that, she scurried away.
I walked back into the suite, her words echoing in my mind.
I placed the bottle of Evian on the vanity in front of Chloe. She took a sip before finally gracing me with her attention. "Alright. You can start now."
I let out a quiet breath of relief and began applying her foundation.
Her skin was a challenge. It was fair but had a dull, yellowish undertone. Whatever products she’d been using had left her with enlarged pores, and just prepping her skin and minimizing them took the better part of half an hour.
I had just finished setting her makeup when she let out a piercing shriek.
The plastic water bottle flew from her hand and slammed into my shoulder.
I stumbled back, stunned. "What... what's wrong?"
Her eyes were blazing. "Are you even a real makeup artist? You have no idea what you're doing! Look at this! You're just dumping white powder all over my face."
I clamped down on my patience. "Ma'am, this is a technique called 'baking.' It's for long-wear makeup, especially for photoshoots. It ensures your makeup stays flawless for hours."
But a thought pricked at my mind.
How could a supposed beauty influencer not know about baking?
Her two bridesmaids seized the opportunity to jump in. "What's that supposed to mean? Are you questioning our sister's expertise?"
"Nobody sets makeup like that! It's supposed to be a fine mist of setting spray, a delicate process. You just poured flour on her face!"
I tried to explain, my frustration mounting, but one of them suddenly shoved a camera tripod toward me.
Caught off guard, I staggered back, my forehead smacking against the cold metal.
I cried out, more in shock than pain.
The bridesmaid sneered. "What are you doing? Trying to fake an injury for a payout?"
I was speechless, the injustice of it all catching in my throat.
Another makeup artist saw the commotion and hurried over, trying to de-escalate the situation and explain the technique on my behalf. After a tense moment, Chloe finally seemed to relent, sinking back into her chair.
"I'll give you one last chance," she said, her voice dripping with condescension.

3
I was fuming.
She knew she was in the wrong, yet somehow she twisted it into an act of her own generosity.
I took a deep, shaky breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to snap. A colleague handed me some paper towels, and I numbly dabbed at the water soaking my shirt before picking up my brush and stepping forward again.
When I was finally done, a wave of relief washed over me. "The makeup is complete. My colleague will guide you through the next steps of your photoshoot."
"Wait," Chloe snapped.
She pulled out her phone, placing the photo of Anne Hathaway right next to her face in the mirror. Then she grabbed my arm, shoving the phone so close to my face I could see the pixels.
"Does this look anything like her?" she demanded, her voice rising with each word. "Did you get the features right? The nose? The mouth, the eyes, the brows? Are you blind?"
My brow furrowed. The other clients in the studio were now whispering amongst themselves, their eyes darting our way. In the phone's glow, the image of the real Anne Hathaway was all grace and serene beauty. And then there was the woman in the mirror.
I kept my voice low and steady. "Ma'am... we agreed to replicate the makeup in the photo. It's makeup imitation, not a full facial transformation."
My professional composure was shattering. When she showed me the picture and said, "Make me look like this," who in their right mind would think she meant to literally become the celebrity? That wasn't makeup; that was sculpting a new person from scratch.
And besides, who wants to get married looking like someone else?
She scoffed. "Don't try to hide your incompetence behind a bunch of jargon. 'Makeup imitation, not transformation'? I showed you the picture of Anne Hathaway from the start, didn't I? I pointed right at her and told you to make me look like that!"
As her voice reached a fever pitch, she lunged at me.
I jumped back, but it was too late. Her hand swiped across my station, sending a container of loose powder crashing to the floor. The cloud of dust was followed by a sickening thud as my entire makeup case, which had been resting by the chair, was knocked over, its contents spilling across the tiled floor.
My God.
That was my personal kit. My expensive, carefully curated collection of cosmetics. Several of the brushes in there were custom-made by hand, tools I had waited 128 days for.
It wasn't just the money. A hot, uncontrollable rage surged up from the pit of my stomach.
I stepped forward to salvage what I could, but she misinterpreted the movement.
"What, you got a problem with me?" she shrieked, as if I were the one attacking her.
Her two bridesmaids shoved me hard. I lost my balance and fell to the floor, instinctively curling up and covering my head with my hands as their accusations rained down on me.
"Our Chloe told you what she wanted, and you said you could do it! Now you're getting violent because you're not good enough!"
"Where's your manager? Get your director out here! Is this how you treat your customers?"
The studio manager came running over. He took one look at the scene—me on the floor, Chloe screaming—and his eyes narrowed, pinning me with the blame. "What is going on here?"
He was new. I'd been away on a project when he was hired, and Sarah had already told me he wasn't my biggest fan. He resented me for holding a senior position at the studio without contributing to the daily sales figures. So, his immediate assumption that I was the problem didn't surprise me.
But it still stung.
Chloe launched into a tirade. "A refund! I want a full refund!"
At the word "refund," the manager's head whipped around, his glare intensifying on me. "I specifically called you in to cover this shift because I knew the client wanted to look like Anne Hathaway."
My head snapped up. What? No one had mentioned a single word of that to me.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Are you kidding me? When exactly did you tell me that? You're just going to throw me under the bus without even asking what happened?"
His face hardened. "How dare you speak to me like that? The customer is always right, and right now, the customer is unhappy. Get over here and apologize."
My hand tightened around the makeup brush still clutched in my fist, my knuckles white with rage. "Find someone else. I'm done."
I turned to leave. Let someone else deal with this circus.
Seeing me walk away, Chloe seemed to sense her chance for a refund slipping away. Suddenly, she was insisting that only I could do her makeup.
The manager, now desperate, pleaded with her. "Can we please have another artist help you? We can find someone else, just please, let's not talk about refunds."
Chloe crossed her arms. "You've already switched artists on me once. Are you just going to keep cycling through people to run out the clock? At this point, I think a full refund is perfectly reasonable."
The manager fell silent. A full bridal package was expensive. If he comped the entire thing, who would absorb the cost of the makeup, the photography, the couture rentals, the products?
"Fine," Chloe declared. "Then she has to do it. And if it's not perfect, it's on you."
So, you want your money, and you want a freebie, and you're both willing to sacrifice your artist to get what you want?
I kept walking. This wasn't my problem.
"Sarah, you're here!" the manager yelled at my back. "Tell us! Did you or did you not tell Vivi what the client wanted when you asked her to cover?"
Sarah stepped out from the small crowd that had gathered. She wouldn't meet my eyes.
Her voice was quiet, but clear. "I told her."
I stopped dead in my tracks.
A boundless, burning rage unlike anything I had ever felt consumed me. It was worse than the bride's ridiculous demands, worse than the manager's blatant lies. This was a betrayal.
Sarah was the first person I'd met when I joined the studio. The owner and I had met at an international makeup competition. I needed a stable job with a 401k and health insurance to appease my mother, and she wanted to leverage my reputation in SFX to break into the overseas market. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Out of respect for our deal, I always pitched in when the studio needed help. I even took their basic bridal training courses, which is why Sarah knew I was capable of covering her shift.
The manager's voice was sharp with urgency. "If you can't handle this, we'll have to cancel the project, and you will be held fully responsible."
"Fully responsible" meant I would have to cover the client's refund, plus all the studio's losses for time and resources.
I looked at Sarah. Her body was trembling, her head bowed in shame.
I walked back toward her, stopping right beside her. I leaned in, my voice a low, chilling whisper in her ear.
"You know I can do it."
"You wanted Anne Hathaway? Who ever said I couldn't deliver?"

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