This is insane, thought Dalia, looking around the
frenzied room. There were cameras being positioned, people in faded jeans and
t-shirts wearing head microphones, pointing and yelling instructions to people
with notepads. The lighting crew stood on ladders adjusting the floodlights
suspended over the set. Dalia scratched her head and closed the door to her
dressing room. A short skinny girl poked her head in to hand her a schedule for
the shoot. Everything was in ten minute increments-make-up at 6:00, rehearsal
at 6:10…it was overwhelming. The only things keeping her sane were the
butterflies in her stomach and the jolt from the extra-large mug of Starbucks
coffee making a brown, watery ring on the dresser.
Dalia looked up into the wide mirror lined with bulb
lights. Many times she daydreamed about having her own dressing room, looking
into this mirror. In her dreams, she was always in control. She would be
applying her lipstick or perfecting her hair as people fluttered about, tending
to her needs. Now as she stared at herself sipping her coffee, all she could
see were the dark circles under her eyes and the scar on her nose where she
popped her latest pimple with a clothespin.
Instead of feeling in control she felt as if she was just going along
for the ride. In her dreams she was the center of it all but here she was a
small player in this humongous spinning machine called show business. It was if
it didn’t really need her, but rather beckoned her when it wanted to be served.
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